Takeaway Food

Lovers are out there scraping hearts into the frost on some poor bastard’s windscreen, their breath fogging up the glass like cheap sex in a doorway. Rain drizzles down, soft and useless, on rows of scooters hunched in the alley, seats glazed with ice, waiting for some fool to come along and chip it off with a credit card that’s already maxed out.

Frozen cars, frozen people, frozen love—
same shit, different decade.

I’m leaning against a lamppost in Brewer Street, cigarette dying between my fingers, watching the whole circus stagger past. Couple of hours ago I was parked at The Dog and Duck, swallowing warm rum and stale lies, and now I’ve got a greasy paper bag swinging from my fist—sweet-and-sour pork bleeding through the bottom, straight from one of those neon holes in Chinatown that smell like bleach and compunction.

bought a porno mag,
from the darkness in soho,
easing into sleep.