238. Casablanca.

whilst all around was grey

and dull and dreary

in a drizzly penny-pinching 1960’s

kind of way,

down a cobbled back street

behind Whittakers & the ladies lavs

was an outpost of sultry exotica,

where, after a morning’s shopping,

and if we’d been good,

she might take the weight off her feet

for half an hour or so.


Wrought iron tables & red tassled shades

and a smoky half-light

where the foamy coffee tasted of coffee

& not the flat lukewarm piss on offer


– the lady owner a Flamenco dancer

in stilettos

with ruffled dress & a mole on her cheek

and jet black hair.


I didn’t know what it was, exactly,

but I knew what I liked.