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About New York City

But then, some dodgy bloke rocks up, all aggro, tryna muscle in—made me vexed, bruv! I’m like, “Mate, chill, I ain’t here for beef!” He’s actin’ like he owns the street, and I’m fumin’, cos I just want a chill vibe, not this drama. “Is it ’cos I is black?” I shout, half-jokin’, half-pissed, and he legs it—coward! Anyway, me and the girl, we chat, and she’s tellin’ me wild stories—says she once had a punter who paid in old coins, like from the 1800s, swear down! I’m gobsmacked, thinkin’, “What past life was that geezer from?”

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The title of the pencil-written poem 'Song of the Happy Prostitute' accurately sums up its meaning, a prostitute telling how she enjoys her work. It.

I also love sneakin’ off to some secret spots. The old abandoned train station off Central Ave? Totally eerie but wild. I swear I heard ghostly giggles once (boo!). And then there’s a tiny garden on Elm where you can hear birds chirp like a live indie band – super chill, super underrated.

Daphne Dee Fuller Obituary January 25, 2025