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.
Christmas Day
his nine-year-old loved her nursery, and she loved climbing trees, and reading her books about history, flowers, and trains. and she loved her father, and he thought of her as he buffed his black Oxford brogues from Loakes in London. and he thought of her again when he ironed his shirt — how she smiled
Columbus
the body floats on the flat sea under a grey sky. no ripple. just a heavy, waterlogged sack lifting and dropping with the swell. no fight left in the meat. he drifts like a chunk of foam, arms out, face half tilted to the clouds and half soaked in the brine. eyes open, fixed on
Marney Road, Clapham
the grey voice crackled over the PA like some old drunk clearing his throat in the dark, spitting out the names of places nobody really believed in anymore. platform three, homeward bound, cold enough to crack. five more inches had fallen in the night and had gone to slush, working its way into the holes