Pavement Licker No.07 by JAMES-LEE DUFFY

HOT

DUFFY JEWELLERY HALFPENNY WEARESHADOWS.COM CAMDEN MUSE STEAK AND SALAD (NO CHIPS) CUTTING A BIKE IN HALF ART WEDNESDAY STUFFED PINK RATS POISON BOTTLES THE NORTH EGGS WITH TABASCO THE LORD STANLEY LIME GREEN SHOES KNOCKBACK BLACK RABBITS

NOT

STICK AND POKE LONDON UNDERGROUND ART DEPT. EBAY XL MOTHS LOONY TOONS BAG THAT ADVERT ON TELLY YORK WAY WALK HITTING CARS FULHAM BROWN POINTED SHOES PORTOBELLO ALL SAINTS TOURISTS

WEBSITE

www.weareshadows.com joshjoshjones.wordpress.com strokeface.wordpress.com www.relaxintochaos.com www.pavementlicker.com CONTACT Email: info@weareshadows.com CONTRIBUTORS: Paul Insect, James-Lee Duffy, Andreas Laszlo Konrath, Hero of Switzerland DAN, John Slade, Jake Jones, Phil Smith, Christopher Slevin, Andrew Rae, Jon Fox, Margot Bowman, Thomas Genower, Ray Kane, Tom Medwell, Nick Haymes, Squid, Marie Berry, Joao Caridade, Steven Silverwood, Michael Perry, Darren Cullen, Harry Malt, Andrew James Jones, Craig Salmon, Kate Moross, Dirk Metzger, Ian Stevenson, Johan Mosse, Victor Auslander, Dan Wilton, Matthew Green, Dave Chase and Duffy Jewellery. Special thanks to James-Lee Duffy, Josh Jones, JT and Alan at Jarballs Printers for making it happen.

PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE TOURISTS

DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS? DADDYORCHIPS?DADDYORCHIPS?

I GOT UP I GOT ON THE SCENE LIKE A SEX MACHINE I GOT ASKED NOT TO

-OW!In the depths of the shadows, the city dweller saw. He stood Hunched in the corner Away from the crowd, just observing Watching Not a nice man The other side Jeremy lay Just holding his arm. Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d banged it earlier. Ouch.

WAITING FOR SAM IN THE GRIFFIN Pint, pint. Rickety chair. I know her. I can’t be bothered to talk to her. I used to work for her. It was crap. Lower my brim. Smooch my pint. What? I guess, that one - someone’s sitting on that one. I know, well they’re on their way here. White hot second of fury. Have this stool mate. Why so many people endlessly streaming through the door? It’s cold. Close the door. It’s draughty. He looks friendly. He doesn’t. They sound boring. Rickety chair. Back to front of free magazine. Again. That’s four times. I still can’t decide if it’s any good. People ebb. People flow. Bass and harmonica cough out of the juke box. Sip pint. Plimsoll. Plimsoll. Biker boot. Brogue? That’s not even ironic. Plimsoll. Skate shoe. Stop standing with the fucking door open. It’s cold. Hats at 1, 2, three ironic angles. One chirpy next to two bad jumpers. Still no Sam. Drink pint. Lick lips. Bite beard. Check phone. Pretend to text. Yes. This chair is taken. He’s. On. His.Way. Low slung rucksacks. Dreadlocks. Leather jacket, old man inside. Four pairs of square glasses with black arms. Cough, cough. Right on my arm. Thank you. And again. Great. Token scouser. Default funny. Probably. Brace of heavy fringes. What are they hiding? Is he cycling? Maybe he crashed. London Pride and Stella is £1.70 a pint that blackboard proclaims. That’s cheap. Oh. Only ‘til six. Yes. This fucking seat is taken. I haven’t changed my mind. Stop looking over my wrist. Are you reading this? Fuck off. Back to their banal story. Good grief, a girl was friendly to someone and nasty behind their back. What is this

world coming to? Enthralling. Sip pint. Can’t drink proper speed in case they take these seats. Nothing. New. Happening. Pause. Check phone. Dr Marten’s with laces undone. Of course. Text Berry. Sip pint. Sip pint. Sip pint. Sip pint. Sip pint. Camp barman, camping around. Nearly caught old bosses eye. Lower brim. Bite bottom lip. Look absorbed at this pencil. Tap foot to beat. Raz texts. Reply. Tiny time gets wasted. Send. Listen to hubbub as an entity. Nasty racket. Lucky Man, The Verve’s one, shuffles and strides from the speakers. Drowning out the idiots. Have the seat mate. Up and move. That corner table’s free and none’s seen it. Sit down. Away from dull and nearer shouty. Sweet. shouty’s leaving. Breathing space. Berry texts. Will arrive in a bit too. Nice surprise. Y.E.S.I.A.M.U.S.I.N.G.T.H.E.S.E .C.H.A.I.R.S. Aha. Sam.

ODE TO LONDINIUM Every step New decay Sun expires Skin gives way A birthing pool A sallow fool A shimmering Glimmering Fecund cooling Breeze Disease Pants round knees An eternal price A soft hand please And squeeze Stroke Pull And twist. The tumultuous crunching An arthritic wrist An aged face A turbid brain A million futures Cranked down the drain Grins and sins Vim of the vague Collars starched A niggardly plague Spam and spurt Dash and thrust Acrobatic Prophylactic Hypnotized Crushed Industrialized Homogenized Spastic And sane

Don’t forget To remember You’re a card-carrying member Of a political party Hell bent on dismembering A country A nation An empire A man A collection of cells Controlled by the sands Of time Of decline Of slow pace And stumbles Of droops And of stoops Drools Stools And grumbles Mumbles And mishaps Undesired forward rolls Panics Alarms And wheel based short strolls. The banks The erosion The corrosion of funds Landslips And gymslips A great time to be dumb Neglected by mother Strong handed by dad Made to feel silly Made to feel bad Made to feel nothing Made to feel clad In stone, brick and concrete Pestle and mortar Spring forward

Fall back All lambs to the slaughter Punching in Clocking Out Pursed lips And clenched fists Dehydrated dinners No need for wine lists Alone Sat in silence The hue of the screen Red button interaction A downloadable dream. The stenches The sulfur The fug And the haze Daydreams Stark nightmares Sweat The malaise Bedbugs Fat rats Stray cats Rabid dogs Gulls mulling litter Time to dispose. Waste and guts Cuts And sores Heroes Made zeroes Celebrate our new whores. Holes And preened gussets Phallocentric And stiff Gifs Lists And jpegs Big cocks And fake tits.

THANKS FOR ALL THE FISH If we think you’re delicious, you’re fucked. Especially if they eat you in Japan (or is that racist?) It’s lucky we don’t eat moon soup or that’d be screwed too. Are you a shark, whale, tuna or cod? You are? Mate, you’re fucked. Your whole family, your kids and everyone you hang out with, battered, that’s what you are. If you’re a monkey, bear, red squirrel, bat, or bee, if you’re a butterfly, soya bean or rainforest tree, you might as well sleep with the fishes. Oh and oil, gas and coal - you guys, it’s been amazing. Thanks for everything, but it’s time to say goodbye, so go on, fuck off, and take democracy with you, it’s drunk enough already. Don’t worry though, it’s not all bad news: cats get by OK, crayfish are thriving and fuck it, who needs bees anyway?

THE CAMERA WATCHES ME, KEEPS ME SAFE, MAKES SURE I DON’T DO ANYTHING WRONG, MAKES SURE IF I DO SOMETHING OUT OF THE ORDINARY IT GETS LOGGED AND RECORDED. THAT CAMERA IS A SAVIOUR TO ALL OF US. IT KNOWS EXACTLY WHERE I AM ALL THE TIME. IT CAN TAKE REALLY BLURRY PICTURES OF ‘YOUNG, BLACK MEN’. IMAGINE IF WE TOOK A PHOTO OF A BUILDING? OR IF WE STOOD IN THE SAME STREET CORNER FOR TOO LONG? OR SPOKE TO A MAN WITH A LONG BEARD? OR SHOUTED IN THE STREET? OR WALKED PAST THE HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT? OR SPENT SOME MONEY? MY MONEY. JUST TO CHECK I’M SPENDING MY MONEY IN THE PROPER WAY. OR THAT I DON’T SPEND TOO LONG ON MY LUNCH? OR I DON’T PASS MY SMILE QUOTA THIS WEEK. OR IF I GET ATTACKED AND STABBED? IT SEES ALL OF IT. EXCEPT THAT LAST BIT.

NO. I DON’T WANT A BAG. I HAD QUITE A GOOD STORY BUT I JUST ATE A PACK OF MINI CHEDDARS AND IT MADE ME FORGET. SIGH.

MAKE A CUP OF TEA DRAW THE CURTAINS LIGHT THE GAS FIRE & WATCH REALLY BAD TELEVISION 55 BUS MARCH 30th GOT ON SAT DOWN Cue person in front. “I heard that he pays to print his own magazine. I know! Yeah. No advertising! I know. I know. I dunno. Yeah print it himself. His own money. He works in the day to pay for it all. Hahhahahahahaha. Yeah I know. Innit. Dunno. Going to Old St. No, I’m going home on the Bank Holiday. Surrey…” GOT OFF THE BUS.

-UNTITLED-

True story.

I’m walking around in a daze because I’ve got nowhere else to be While slowly but surely the foundations crumble And the best that I can do is shudder I can’t slow it down, or hold it up So I pour me another drink, into the same old cup

SMALL TALK “So, erm, what do you do Vern?”

“What do you sell Vern?”

You look to the floor, thinking for a minute... what...do...I...do...well...I staple old people to trees...feed diseased Trafalgar Square pigeons to new-born kittens...I EVEN once bullied Andi Peters into gutting a giant panda and SMEARING ITS INTESTINES OVER A VEGAN CHARITY WORKERS BREAKFAST! Damn, he’s still looking at you hand on hip, waiting for an answer. He’s staring intently as though you’re about to tell him the punch line to that joke about Celine Dion walking into a horse. What seems like a lifetime later, you give him what he wants...

What do I sell? WHAT DO I SELL?? WELL TERRY, I DON’T ACTUALLY SELL ANYTHING, I SIT AT MY COMPUTER ALL DAY, MOVING THINGS ROUND MY DESK, CHECKING FACEBOOK AND THINKING ABOUT HOW I CAN GET RID OF BORING ARSE-DROPPINGS LIKE YOU FROM MY LIFE FOREVER YOU HORRIBLE POOL OF ACNE JUICE...

“I work in sales Terry”. Silence ensues... You look around the room, desperately trying to make contact with everyone from the barman to that unfortunate looking girl that reminds you of both Bella Emburg and the kid from that Cher film. Rocky Dennis. From Mask. “Sales eh?”

“Ah, you know, this and that Terry, this and that...” Everything around you becomes a potential weapon...you could stick that paper clip in his foreskin, or use that hole punch to decorate his jugular... He looks around the room... YES! FINALLY, YOU’RE SAFE! But no, you misread the signs. “So, err, how do you know everyone Vern?”

“Er,yesTerry,sometimes,sometimes,Terry....”

THAT’S IT, AAAAHHHH, NO MORE, I’M FINISHING IT. You move in closer, ready to act and then you do it without flinching... you pour the rest of your drink over your own crotch while forcing out a bit of followthrough into your underpants shouting “I’M SOILED LIKE A LOVE CHILD OF AMY WINEHOUSE AND PETE DOHERTY, GAAAAAAH”And hey presto, Terry’s gone along with the rest of those losers, leaving just you and Bella Emburg to enjoy the sweet, slightly toilety smell of success over a shot of bleach.

He nods and puts his spare hand to his chin

Dang, wish I’d thought of that sooner.

“Er, yes....” your fists and buttocks clench in unison as you picture him falling under Roland from Grange Hill’s lunch....”sales. Terry....” “That must be exciting Vern...” LORDY, who in the name of Chuck Berry IS this guy? WHY is he talking to me? Must. Stay. Calm.

OSCAR WILDE