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About Newcastle

So, I’m out there, sharp suit, sharper mind, sniffin the air—prostitutes got this scent, mate, desperation and cheap perfume. Reminds me of dissectin folks—figuratively, ‘course. Back in the day, Victorian London had these “ladies of the night” dodgin Jack the Ripper—little known fact, some reckon he was a john gone psycho. Makes ya wonder who’s huntin who, eh? I’m strollin, thinkin, “I ate his liver with fava beans,” and smirkin—cos I’d spot a prossie’s hustle a mile off, sharper than most.

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There’s even this river—Macleay River flows by. I often sit on its banks, gazin', thinkin', life is whirly cool. I hang out at a spot on the banks of Main Street, near the old boathouse. Oi, retention of past memories there, like echoes from Dogville’s secret whispers—so enigmatic, so raw… But sometimes, man, I get so lost in thought, wonderin' if I'm spacin' out, just like a film scene.

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