by Jonathan Cardew Detail from St. Hilda at Hartlepool by James Clark (artist) (oil painting)/CC Hartlepool Art Gallery we snorted charlie in the co-op car park, forgot about our woes and stds, even jimmy’s crabs were crawling less now, he was a happy chappy with very little clappy in the trappy, god it was hot, like lick the sweat off your balls hot, 51c in the north, melting tarmac, melting politicians, melting asses, like actual donkeys melting from the inside out, on the

by Jonathan Cardew Haberdoedas I. Wheelie of Fortune I was in the Wheelie trash can, the brand-new contraption the city had sent us for refuse. “What are you doing?” my wife said, leaning from the side door. “I slept with Jeanie,” I said, over the rim. “I fucked her last spring.” My wife winced, walked down the steps. “I know,” she said. “ You know?” “I watched you. Right from where you are now. I came home and saw her car. That’s why I got in the trash.” “It’s a good view,”