The Mirror
she starts the day with a pot of turmeric tea. it steams up the window. a half-arsed apology to the liver after the whisky kicked it to pieces all night. outside, the Greenock rain drives straight into the tar. another Sunday. at the table, she thinks about the mirror from the local paper. ten quid.
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.
The Pavilion
the place on Renfield Street. the Pavilion. a dump with velvet seats. the stink of yesterday’s drink. four musicians drag their bones onstage. the trumpet player’s lips are cracked. old pavement. the drummer sweating whisky right through his shirt. they blow the blues anyway. noise. raw. ugly. tickets are still available, plenty of them. cheap
