Shirley
the heat was already a bastard at 6:15am, thick and merciless, pressing down on the city like some drunk god’s hangover that wouldn’t lift. everything felt wrong before I knew why, that dead quiet, broken by a wet, ugly confusion, the kind of sound that crawls into your gut and tells you death is close,
Poor Hygiene
it could have been the fridge handle. or the front door. maybe the button on the stereo. it didn’t matter which. the dirt had found its way in. now the body was paying for it in the oldest, most ridiculous way. the eggs were already there. smaller than anything you could see. waiting in the
The Whale
they threw money at you once, from the iced-up bow of the Mary Jane. a tourist boat full of bastards with cameras. snapping at the bulk sliding through the water. a blue dream on a day when the bottle’s half-empty. cameras clicking, oohs and fucking aahs pouring out of them. now it’s thirty years later.
