Layla
I found you in the newspaper on page 33, but sometimes, your sweet innocence annoys me like hell. But then I understand, how your life has become what it is, a worthless degree in a murky recession. You stayed over for three nights, and told me how your father drank in derelict rooms on the
Jesus Lane
Past the waffle joint on Jesus Lane, grease still sizzling in the air like a cheap tart— two black cabs tangled up like drunks after last call, front ends kissing metal on metal. Some skinny bastard on a bicycle did it, clipped one and kept pedalling into the dark, ass disappearing down a side street
The Dead Letter
That summer morning was humid, bright, and busy. The girls were rushing around doing homework, digging out plimsolls, and searching for lunch boxes; raisins, cucumber, and tubs of yoghurt – packed lunches. It arrived in the morning post, bundled with bills, catalogues, and fast-food flyers. The postmark was antipodean, and the franking skew with surreal