Rafters
Taut line of thin manila, rope creaking on dusty rafters swinging. In your shame. On the record player, the crackle of stylus on vinyl dry, Nina Simone in a smoky jazz bar, patrons sipping on cognacs oblivious to your indignity, your shame, your cat alone, and a patch of urine dry, the stench at the
Another Journey
Two days in my bedroom with tins of super strength lager and Lucky Strike cigarettes from Rachel. A headache again, the alcohol surging to inspire. The haze. Warm sentiments of new friends and visions of cold places abound. Like Dachau. And then I see her waiting in the rain, waiting outside my window, cold and