He said, ‘I’m you’re last drown before Christmas,’
and looked at me kettle-eyed, charged with the volts
of a long line taken in a short sniff. I smiled,
grinned, bared my teeth and gnashed the air,
‘fuck you,’ I said shivering, ‘fuck your Christmas
because I’m cold cut, I’m you’re razor sharp edge,
I’m you’re back end delight, only friend in a night
of lonely kicks, neon lights and sparks
that last less than two minutes.’
His eyes widened, he said nothing.
Outside the air iced against the glass;
thick veins forming, splitting, kicking
at the seams while the streetlights burst
a glittering yellow across crappy kebabs
and the foreheads of groomed school kids.
© Hayden Westfield-Bell, 2013