Marney Road, Clapham
the grey voice crackled over the PA like some old drunk clearing his throat in the dark, spitting out the names of places nobody really believed in anymore. platform three, homeward bound, cold enough to crack. five more inches had fallen in the night and had gone to slush, working its way into the holes
Broken Homes
Is it a shadow, or just some curled-up leaf. It’s tough trying to miss them on the black path before dawn, stumbling half-drunk on sleep with your eyes still glued shut from last night’s whiskey. you try. God, you try, squinting into the nothing, but it always ends the same: a wet pop under the