The Camel

Christmas again, Jesus, another one.

London’s 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 the head off the pint, little white islands drowning slow. pavements full of spit and dogshit and cigarette butts’ ground into black confetti, chewing gum flattened into pale moons by a million tired feet in shoes.

out there the whores freeze in skirts the size of handkerchiefs, thighs going blue, the wind knifing up between their legs while they lean into car windows. price, place, punter, it 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. 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 scratch card and the paper on the table.

merry fucking Christmas, everybody.

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