Shunting Trains
I stand here pissing in this narrow shithole of a toilet, staring up through the little slit of a window at a sky the colour of a dead man’s face. little worms of light wriggle across my vision, the cheap vodka still working its way through me. the place smells like something that crawled in
The Talk Show Host
they wait there in the long fluorescent hum of the evening, motorised chairs whining low and plastic seats creaking under the weight of old bones. some have stalks of shiny steel rising like chrome antennas above balding heads and thinning silver hair, clear bags of saline, dripping slow, intravenous pricks taped to blue-veined arms. they