By Elaine Marie McKay
On Fridays, we clock off from the week. We exit from garages, factories, offices: casting off our embarrassing frailty and banality. We shave off the five o’clock shadow and make sure we dress sharp for the fight. With slicked back hair, we don crisp white shirts, skinny ties and fitted black suits.
Before I head out, I search in the mirror for this weekend me. He’s there in the cold blank stare. The eyes tell me he hates his shit job and the way he’s expected to be. One last comb through the hair with the steel weapon of choice, its teeth having plenty of bite. And I feel like we are ready to step into the fray, ready for what’s been designed.
Ranks of side street soldiers line up to get kicks from the night, spilling poetry on to the streets to combat prosaic lives. Digits numbed by keypads feel sensation as they clench into fists. Their basic form pounds out our anthem of despair, and this pugilistic purging ensures we wear catharsis on Saturday faces.