99 I "heart" NYC balloons

13th West 13th Street rooftop is empty of farewell by Dancer from 42nd Street. It’s 1980, Andrea Dunbar’s writes ‘The Arbor’ and I’m punching a plastic trimfone for messages. Shoulda done dentistry not retail, which bounce mini-managers around like parcels but hey it’s how I found you, Ant man. Ant has great musicality, snorts constantly and gets busted. My sponge heart bails him. Try smuggling live bollocks into a female hostel where they notice these things, it’s fun.

Jump taxi cab to Port Authority, deli-bag strapped to chest; too late now. A zeppelin of red balloons fill the sky blocking sight. Polish taxi-driver fires Krakow invectives. 1980 NYC is a fractal second that pops, inspiring insanity. Boarding dumb thudding jumbo as a burst Central Park inflatable makes it on the heel of a child. So NYC follows me home. Little did I know, you’d be forever under my skin Ant.