Table for Two
the talk drags on all night, two old bastards mumbling into the black hours about pensions and politicians and how the world’s circling the drain. they never once touch the real rot — the wars that chewed up their youth, the women who walked out and never looked back. it’s a Christmas lunch, some half-arsed
Cold Soup
I’m up on the top deck of this double-decker, stopped at a light, staring down through the piss-streaked window into a restaurant with red tablecloths and napkins folded like origami sculptures. waiters running plates, patrons shaking off the rain like wet dogs, umbrellas dumped in the corner dripping into one big grey puddle. and my
The Priesthood
the room, this dormitory cist, one bed like a slab they forgot to bury me in, two chairs that nobody sits on, and a corner window that stares out at nothing. solitude, the old whore, she climbs in bed with you every night, whispers the same tired shit in your ear until you almost believe
Little Bird
I sat on the broken porch steps with a warm beer going flat between my knees, watching that mangy cat take the sparrow right out of the air. The bird hit the gravel, still flapping, one wing bent completely backwards and blood bubbling at its beak. the cat pinned it down with a heavy paw,