The Camel

Christmas again, Jesus, another one.

London’ East End.

Her heels stab the wet pavement like they’re trying to kill it, clack-clack, clack-clack, some secretary’s last fuck-you to the day. Everybody running for the Underground or the pub, same difference: heat, noise, cheap beer that tastes like rust and lament.

Peanuts in cloudy glasses, napkins soaked through with head off the pint, little white islands drowning slow. Sidewalks full of spit and dogshit and cigarette butts’ ground into black confetti, chewing gum flattened into pale moons by a million tired feet.

Out there, the whores stand freezing their asses off in skirts the size of handkerchiefs, thighs turning blue, wind knifing up between their legs while they lean into car windows and try to remember what it felt like to feel something besides cold.

Price, place, punter; doesn’t matter.

Money’s money, warmth is warmth, and both are in short supply.

I get off at Bethnal Green, legs half dead, lungs full of diesel and despair.

A short walk to The Camel.

Pie and mash and a pint of something dark that doesn’t ask questions. I sit there chewing gristle and the remains of yesterday, watching the same old faces lose at the same old game, my ten quid scratchcard and newspaper on the table.

Merry fucking Christmas, everybody.

scratch-off silver moon,
lotto whispers jackpot jazz,
dreams blow away—gone