"THOUGHT, DREAM, DESIRE COME TO THIS"

by George Rostov

My reason is rhyme. In purpose poor, like a meteorological metaphor I could to a cloud be compared, capricious in course, carried on the currents of the sky.

My meaning missing, I am the clown without his circus, a lover that lacks a love, and a body bereft of blood. I have nothing save these ( Read more... )

The bleak afternoon offers a choice. A gay sauna, small, dirty, and always crowded with business men clutching bottles of poppers and packets of Viagra in sweaty, ink-stained hands, is only a short walk away. A public toilet that, at this time of day is filled with desperate pensioners frantically rubbing their withered genitals, is a mere five ( Read more... )

 It’s the same, tedious routine every day.

The birds cackle on my balcony, as the first cold rays of the dead sun strike the slow-moving sludge of the Thames below. My hand, shooting out from under the stained duvet reaches for the bottle of vodka waiting on the bedside cabinet, toppling in the process a stack of empty Menthol packets that patter ( Read more... )

The day was as grey as an overworked civil servant, the sky obscured beneath a thick pall of bloated rain clouds. The cigarette had made my mouth dry, filling it with a bitter taste; I tossed it into the road, and pulled myself up from the wet pavement. A rusting bus clogged with shoppers stopped at the lights, its brakes protesting with a high- ( Read more... )