The Storm
the sky over Jesus Green is one big hangover—black, bloated, hanging there like a miserable drunk who won’t leave the bar, just holding it all back before the rush. then it starts. I look up at the shitty streetlight with a sign dangling off the iron: Faulty, please report. like anyone gives enough of a
The Yellow Digger
the railway tracks hum all night like a drunk’s heartbeat, and come seven in the morning, the yellow bastard starts gnawing the street — teeth filthy, breath of diesel and broken stone — ripping up clean concrete that never hurt nobody, hunting for pipes for a wage so that some engineer can feed his kids,