The Jockey
the horn blows wild. tidal wave, six to one, 3:35 sharp, the bell clanging, and there she goes, the grey ghost streaking over Sandown’s green lung. punters lean into the dream, eyes wild, hearts pounding against the rail, while Mary — sweet Mary of the quick laugh — slides the coldest pint across the oak,
The Salty Dog
crank the burner till the flame goes that sick blue, and throw in those greasy little capers, let them jump around like drunk bastards on a hot tin roof, anchovies too, those smug salty pricks strutting like they own the pot. slice the onions thin, onions crying their cheap tears, garlic stinking up the room
Solstice
What brittle, keening wind is this that stings our ears and dulls the fingers? The coachman of the foulest season whose kiss lingers on bloodless, frigid lips. We’ll soon be warmed by your celestial caress that will cause to pivot the great, grand chart that is infinity and space and all things vast and misunderstood.