Shunting Trains
I stand here pissing in this narrow shithole of a toilet, staring up through the little slit of a window at a sky the colour of a dead man’s face. little worms of light wriggle across my vision, the cheap vodka still working its way through me. the place smells like something that crawled in
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,