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 like an old whore’s perfume, and those dirty green chillies 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, 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, thinking about Naples again, that stinking beautiful city, thinking about Layla — her legs, her laugh, the gap in her teeth, 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.

cheap smokes, warm beer,
one skillet of someone gone—
dirty pasta sauce