The Copper Grill
credit crunch, banks collapse. the headline bleeds out in a grubby newspaper spread across a sticky table. the ink fused with smears of butter from oily ketchup fingers. coffee stains the edges. chunks ripped from the classifieds, page thirty-three. used cars. escort services. mugs of tea steam under the light. hand-rolled cigarettes glow between stained
Neptune’s Crown
my daughter pointed at it through the green murk and said, “Look, Daddy, Neptune’s crown.” it was just a goddamn hubcap off a Ford Mondeo, once chrome-bright and spinning proud on some salesman’s ride, half-shiny even when the rest of the car was coughing rust. one day the clips gave up — like everything else
The Bicycle
those were the days when nothing hurt yet, pedalling like a dumb kid through the maize fields of Southern Africa, dust choking the air, wire fences ripping at your legs if you got too close, the sun baking everything into one long stupid dream. then bam, over the handlebars, eating dirt, picking bloody gravel out