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 soaked
The Orford Ghoul
I was hunkered down 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
The Funeral
forty-five years on, and the memory blows back through my skull like smoke from a tailpipe. that day rushing in. a breeze pushing cherry blossoms around the churchyard. petals swirl down on the stone. soft. useless. the incense finds my nostrils. a thin grey ghost of smoke curls up from the wick of a candle.
Jacobs Ladder
the hubcaps keep dropping off this old crate of mine. circling the same grey industrial stretch, day after day, Trafford Park. sharp turns. low brick walls. loading docks smeared with old grease. the hubcaps go without warning, those cheap silver discs spinning free of the rusted clips, rolling off into the noon glare while the