The Salty Dog

crank the fucking burner till the blue 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 like an old whore’s perfume, and those dirty green chilies flown in from Kenya or wherever the hell, cut them long but leave the white guts in, that’s where the fire lives, that’s the real kick in the balls.

everything goes in a skillet from Christmas past.

plum tomatoes from Frank’s corner store, soft as a hangover, spices I lifted from that hippy joint in Whitechapel, chopped olives that taste like soil, and a fistful of parsley because why not.

it bubbles and spits like the world’s ending in a cheap kitchen, and I’m standing there half-cocked on too much red wine, thinking about Naples again, that stinking beautiful city where the sea smells like piss and perfume, thinking about Layla, her legs, her laugh, her tits, the way she left without a note, just gone, like everything else.

the sauce thickens.
I light another cigarette off the gas flame.
fuck it, dinner’s ready.

sombre memories,
love lost, cheap smokes and warm beer,
dirty pasta sauce