The Jockey
the horn blows wild — tidal wave, six to one, 3:35 sharp, the bell clangs like a drunk monk in the rain, and there she goes, the grey ghost streaking over Sandown’s green lung, that lush emerald breathing under hoof and sky. punters lean into the dream, eyes wild, pounding hearts against the rail while
Sitting with Diego
the morning’s got its claws in me, a hangover squatting on my brain like a fat whore who won’t leave. there’s still a little whiskey humming in the veins, warm and evil, sloshing around in the empty tank of my unconscious, burning sweet. we talk the usual shit—love, life, the happiness that fucked off years