Takeaway Food

lovers paint hearts into the frost on windscreens, their breath fogging the glass like cheap sex in a doorway. rain comes down soft and useless on rows of scooters hunched in the alley, seats glazed with ice, waiting for some fool to chip it off with a credit card that’s already maxed out.

frozen cars, frozen people, frozen love.

I’m leaning against a lamppost in Brewer Street, cigarette dying between my fingers, watching it all stagger past. couple of hours ago I was parked up at the Dog and Duck, swallowing warm rum and stale lies, and now I’ve got a greasy paper bag swinging from my fist — sweet-and-sour pork bleeding through the bottom, a dirty Chinese straight from a neon joint that smells like bleach and regret.

bought a porno mag
from the darkness in Soho,
easing into sleep