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About Genoa

Happy? Nah, surprises me tho—their stories, wilder than mine. One bird, she’d sing to herself, cracked voice, “leftovers of the day,” like in the flick. Made me soft, it did, hisss, cos I’m a sap for that shit. Texture’s my game, seein’ what’s hid—prostitutes got layers, mate, peeling paint on a wall, beautful and fucked-up. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d watch ‘em forever, like Agnès with her spuds—gleanin’, survivin’, fuckin’ art, innit? Hiss!