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, cheap vodka and cheaper dreams doing their slow dance in the bloodstream. smells like the inside of
Harvey
on my table in my little pub— yesterday’s paper screaming about Blair’s little love note to Bush (Tony, I’ll hold your coat while you blow up the world), a warm gin and tonic sweating like a guilty priest, and a tin of cashews gone soft because who gives a fuck. the country pretends it’s shocked.