Flat Cap Sums
I sat in the corner booth, sipping a warm pint that tasted faintly stale, watching him across the dim pub like he was the main attraction. he was mid-60s, easily. the place was quiet, a few scattered patrons like shadows, him alone by the bathroom door like he’d lost track of time. he zipped his
Neptune’s Crown
my daughter pointed at it through the green murk and said, “Look, Daddy, Neptune’s crown.” it was just a goddamn hubcap off a Ford Mondeo, once chrome-bright and spinning proud on some salesman’s ride, half-shiny even when the rest of the car was coughing rust. one day the clips gave up — like everything else
The Orchid
it was Sunday, the early evening sliding down slow and gold over the rooftops, the whole suburb holding its breath like it already knew, and there I was in my small garden, listening to them, that couple going at each other, screams with no floor to them, rage coming up out of the throat the
Easter Sunday
it blows in, that sour stink from the bins, drifting past Tournament House and down the alleyway like some old ghost of the city, rolling right onto platform 7 at Paddington, where the trains howl and the people rush in the endless movement of coming and going. he’s leaning against a cold wall, biding his
Volta
she’s charming software so exquisitely written each byte perfected mark you her plugins are tough to strip from my registry.
The Landlord
I let myself in Monday evening, spare key on the green plastic tag, three months of unpaid rent and a smell in the hall that already told me the rest. and there you are. dangling in the middle of your one-room shithole, toes pointed south, shame finally heavier than the rest of you. good rope,
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,
Charlotte
there I was, rattling along through the grey English drizzle, the underground train clicking under my feet, when I spotted her across the aisle — dark hair falling wild, eyes like midnight streets — and I leaned over, heart going that crazy beat, and asked if I could take her photo, just a quick one
The Fence
it was a big bastard of a project the first time I saw the house, the kind of dumb hope you buy when you still believe in forever. the front fence — cast iron, 1940s, rising off its brick columns like it owned the street. proud. solid. untouched by the rot that had taken everything
The Night Veld
outside, on a spread of lawn behind the fishpond, the heat of the day finally lifting. dinner with grandfather. tender pepper chicken, a splash of water, the old man talking — a table of remembered wisdom, the same stories I’ve heard all my life and only now begin to understand. pockets of cropped moonlight break
The Whale
they threw money at you once, from the iced-up bow of the Mary Jane, some drunk tourist boat full of assholes with cameras, snapping away at your big, beautiful bulk sliding through the water like a blue dream on a good day when the bottle’s half-full. cameras clicking, oohs and fucking aahs, love pouring out
Hyde Park
Hyde Park on a Sunday when the sun’s got its boot on your neck. kids on plastic scooters scraping the hot concrete like they’re trying to file the day down to nothing. bicycles with training wheels squeaking through the legs of mums and dads who just want a bench before the ice cream turns to
The Jockey
the horn blows wild. tidal wave, six to one, 3:35 sharp, the bell clanging, and there she goes, the grey ghost streaking over Sandown’s green lung. punters lean into the dream, eyes wild, hearts pounding against the rail, while Mary — sweet Mary of the quick laugh — slides the coldest pint across the oak,
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
Solstice
What brittle, keening wind is this that stings our ears and dulls the fingers? The coachman of the foulest season whose kiss lingers on bloodless, frigid lips. We’ll soon be warmed by your celestial caress that will cause to pivot the great, grand chart that is infinity and space and all things vast and misunderstood.
Atop Craigendarroch
I stitched and capered a sinuous ascent through the ferns and treacherous granite traps sharp as you like Knavish roots and vines snatching all the way at my toecaps and reached the summit wheezing like a holed bandoneon The green and ochre scabbed shield chaffed by ancient ice delivering to me the stage upon which
Train to Newport
I sit here half-dead on this rattling train to Wales, and my mind starts cranking out its cheap carnival movie, clear as the sour smell drifting from the toilet in the empty carriage ahead. there I was. cotton candy in the air, popcorn grease, the merry-go-round wheezing like an old whore on her last trick.
Columbus
the body, broken like a sack of bones and meat, floating quietly on the flat, endless sea beneath a low grey sky; no ripple, no hurry, just the slow swell lifting and lowering him, gentle as a sigh. no fight left, no scream, no prayer. he drifted like a cork, arms out, face half to
Another Journey
two days of nothing in this little bedroom cell, tins of super-strength lager stacked like golden buddhas on the nightstand, lucky strikes burning one after another till the air’s a thick blue smoke, and me pounding the keys or staring at the ceiling where the cracks look like roads I’ll never take. headache again, that
From Zerbst
across the wastes they rode, Crimea first, then Warsaw. then south, and west again. the horses hammered the flats, hooves kicking up the frozen dirt. the empress sat wrapped in furs, her face set against the wind from Riga – Sophie of Zerbst once, a German girl, now all the Russias. she moved fast. God
Little Bird
For Kari… I sat on the broken porch steps with a warm beer going flat between my knees, watching that mangy cat take the sparrow out of the air like it was nothing. the bird came down still flapping, one wing bent wrong, blood already at its beak. the cat pinned it gentle, almost tender,
The Storm
the sky over Jesus Green is one big hangover, black and bloated, hanging there like a drunk who won’t leave the bar. it’s waiting, holding, ready to let it all go in one long miserable rush. then it starts. I look up through the shitty streetlight with a sign dangling off it — faulty, please
Your Last Orbit
did you just die there in the night? I can’t hear those wild wings anymore, that frantic beating gone silent like a jazz riff cut short in some dim basement club. you were drunk on pure panic, bashing your tiny skull against the cheap IKEA lamp I got last week, that blinding circle of false
Triptych
three sons of Uusimaa washed upon a foreign shore. the first shrugged and grunted and planted himself fast and there toiled to build a house rooted in worldly wickedness but the beetles came and stripped him of flesh as he slept and he was no more the second scorned his brothers earthly failings and contrived
Uncle Patrick
the bar hasn’t changed, neon bleeding red down the walls, smoke hanging in the air like it’s got nowhere better to be, and I’m on the stool next to the one nobody’s sitting on, where Uncle Patrick used to park himself with a Campari glowing in his fist like something he’d cut out of himself.
Inducing a Migraine
there she is behind the marked oak bar, that Irish angel with the black hair falling like midnight rain, serving up the warmest smile you ever saw, pulling a perfect pint, slow and creamy, her eyes shining like Dionysus himself in drag, pouring out the madness. red wine flowing free now, warm in the throat,
Photo Albums
the pictures went in like a splinter you can’t dig out. one showed a Jewish boy, maybe ten, lost inside those striped rags, the yellow star sewn on like a tag on something being shipped. another was nothing but bones twisted wrong and black smoke crawling out of chimneys into a sky that didn’t give
Escort Services
and the buzzer short-circuits like a mad trumpet in the wires, brrrrap-brrrrap-brrrrap, blast after blast ripping down the quiet hallway, salvo after salvo bursting into the black night outside, echoing off the peeling walls. and she’s there, right on time, bang on the dot, and his gut twists with that old primal howl for love
Sitting with Diego
the morning’s got its claws in me, a hangover squatting on my brain like a fat whore who won’t leave. there’s still a little whiskey going in the blood, warm and evil, sloshing around the empty tank of me, burning sweet. we talk the usual shit about love, life, and the happiness that fucked off
The Bicycle
those were the days when nothing hurt yet, pedalling like a dumb kid through the maize fields of Southern Africa, dust choking the air, wire fences ripping at your legs if you got too close, the sun baking everything into one long stupid dream. then bam, over the handlebars, eating dirt, picking bloody gravel out
Jacob’s Ladder
those gleaming silver travellers of the tar, holy rollers deserting me like faithless friends hitching rides to wilder horizons. they vanish into the night or the blistering noon, tumbling free while I loop the same grimy industrial estate, the same sharp corners, round and round. it’s their one breakout, and I almost envy it –
Doctor Klitsov
there I was, sprawled in the dim light of my room, bottle half-empty on the floor, the drink going hot through me, and I thought of Doctor Klitsov in the East End, his little practice with the cracked linoleum and the waiting room that smelled of old magazines and fear. I saw those posters on
The Trader’s Bell
Maharaj and Co. General Suppliers, Established 1888. the floor, beat-to-shit planks of Canadian pine, scarred and grey as a coin worn smooth by too many hands, been there since the clippers came in heavy with tea from the east. sailors with arms like dock ropes drag crates, sweat cutting channels through the grime on their
Shunting Trains
I stand here pissing in this narrow shithole of a toilet, staring up through the little slit of a window at a sky the colour of a dead man’s face. little worms of light wriggle across my vision, the cheap vodka still working its way through me. the place smells like something that crawled in
The Orford Ghoul
I was hunkered in my usual booth at the Orford, the one they used for Tina and Bobby, deep in the dim corner where the light never quite arrives. tonight I skipped the usual cheap shandy and ordered a few large dirty vodkas, straight, no ice to soften the truth. it went down like a
Mainstay
I’m sunk deep in this old armchair, the one with the springs poking through like bad memories, and the room’s half-lit, half-dead, snow still spitting at the window. the clock’s oak pendulum swings back and forth, steady as a slow heartbeat, counting me out. I’m just letting go, sliding down easy into the booze and
Little Cathedrals
Gare de Lyon, that stupendous station, spits you out into Le Train Bleu, all that gold-plated nonsense from the old days hanging there like a drunk’s memories, chandeliers dripping light on the suckers below, paintings of green fields nobody ever worked because they were too busy screwing the maid. I’ve got a table in the
The Bank Loan
this fucking heat won’t quit, sweat pooling in every crease of this rotten carcass, another nightmare, third one this week, crawling out of the sheets like a rat with its throat cut. I can’t even remember what the dream was, just that high-pitched whine in my skull when I snapped awake, nothing else breaking the
Jupiter Outside My Window
2:45 in the goddamn morning, sitting with an empty coffee mug and the crumbs of a biscuit packet scattered like dead soldiers across Shayne and Martin’s kitchen table. three of the bastards, maybe four — I lost count somewhere between the second refill and the third — and now my mouth tastes like the bottom
Harvey
in the pub, at my little table, yesterday’s paper screaming about Blair’s little love note to Bush — Tony, I’ll hold your coat while you blow up the world — a warm gin and tonic sweating like a guilty priest, and a tin of cashews gone soft because who gives a fuck. The country pretends
The Line Dance
clothes pegs hung in a long sad line on the wire, that thin silver line stretched across the backyard of the world like a railroad track to nowhere, and there they are, those little wooden people, those clipped-up saints, dancing to the secret jazz of the morning breeze, rocking back and forth, this way, that
Rachel Kadinsky
haze, red lips parted just enough to promise trouble, and me with my battered brass Zippo from ’86, hinge still catching like it remembered every heartbreak, grinding the wheel slow till the sooty flame whooshed up wild, orange-blue dancing the old cliche dance, kerosene stinging sweet right in the veins. she sucked hard on that
Her Boots
she stood there in those beat-up boots, laces knotted tight, shawl hanging off her shoulders the way a drunk hangs off a barstool — loose, tired, done. out ahead the lake lay frozen solid, a big grey nothing staring back, the closest thing to forgiveness she’d ever been offered. little flecks of ice drifted in
The Mirror
she starts the day with a big pot of turmeric and aniseed tea, some half-arsed apology to the liver after the whiskey kicked the shit out of it all night. it steams up the cracked window while the rain does its usual piss-down outside. she keeps thinking about the mirror she saw advertised in the
The High Hat Solo
blow by blow, the drummer’s foot stomps that pedal like she’s kicking the world in the ribs, cymbals crashing silver in the dim, hi-hat chick-chick-chick in a wild solo to nowhere and everywhere. there she plays under the hot spotlight, the girl with the brushes and the furious heart, beating it out while the room
Mice
I need something else, something other than the low-down hum of silence blowing through my wide-awake bedroom like the ghost of all the roads I never took, the heater dead, the night frozen stiff at six below. I’m lying here in this fever-cabin with the taste of my favourite Mexican place, Las Iguanas, still rolling
The Fairy
she blew in after the lunch bells had faded, Sunday, round two in the afternoon, beautiful in that white-brown whirl, dancing and floating between the aisles like some mad angel in the vortex air of the slow train rumbling toward London. suspended there, afloat in the rattle and sway of the rails, she drifted into
The Camel
Christmas again, Jesus, another one. London’s East End. her heels stab the wet pavement like they’re trying to kill it, clack-clack, clack-clack, some secretary’s last fuck-you to the day. everybody running for the Underground or the pub, same difference — heat, noise, cheap beer that tastes like rust and lament. peanuts in cloudy glasses, napkins
The Snuff Box
he dressed wild as a dream, those striped trousers flashing like railroad tracks under the sun, top hat bowler perched crazy on his head, long coat flapping in the wind off the river, gaudy shirt blooming colours like some mad flower in the grey city streets, eyeglasses swinging on a silver chain, clinking soft against
Persephone
Otherworld child emerging restored to set a gentle lingering squeeze on leg or arm. And so it begins: The way you clear food from your teeth with your tongue The swagger in your hipsway The palm pressed to my chest Delicious smile betraying a distant diastema and the mascara clotted on your lashes The softness