The Camel
Christmas again, Jesus, another one. London’ East End. Her heels stab the wet pavement like they’re trying to kill it, clack-clack, clack-clack, some secretary’s last fuck-you to the day. Everybody running for the Underground or the pub, same difference: heat, noise, cheap beer that tastes like rust and lament. Peanuts in cloudy glasses, napkins soaked
The Whale
they threw money at you once, from the iced-up bow of the Mary Jane, some drunk tourist boat full of assholes with cameras, snapping away at your big, beautiful bulk sliding through the water like a blue dream on a good day when the bottle’s half-full. photography clicks, oohs and fucking aah, love pouring out