Blue denim in his vein

Words from some kind of dead end job....

The bar

It’s 12pm, the regulars litter

cheeks blushing in the September sun

lemonade and boots stick to the floor

Rolling cigarettes, licking dry papers

hungry I am

 but the smoke fills my stomach and

I am sick

           

A bourbon and coke, a Carlton, a teddy and a smoke
I pull the tap with a clink

They’ll chew the fat disagree spit the dummy, fuck this fuck that

Poor old bastards with absent families
They count out their coins, slide them across with chipped nails

And give me a wink with their tip

           
A clean suit walks in, smells like soap
All too early for the afternoon 
heads turn and watch,

wide smile on my face

            Peroni please

            ... and he points

           
his sausage fingers search for coins

His heavy breathing, he’s looking at my tits
tip me big you fat bastard
He hands me the coins, sticky and hot, price of a Carlton to the cent
Fuck all ain’t free.

By Millie Cotes. 

The hostel

Fogging up the carriage on the train ride in.

First things first

who’s gonna do the bins?

First guests arrive at an ungodly hour

But checkout is eleven

“and I haven’t had a shower!”

kick people out with a knock on the door

only to discover

theres vomit on the floor.

Joints at the window can’t do no harm

Til the red engine comes

And we hear the smoke alarm

We’ve run out of forks, there’s no clean spoons

They’ll settle for kebabs

And a box of goon.

Tell me your stories, like where have you been?

At home you’re a hero

But here you’re mainstream.

The sense of adventure and freedom inside

It’s a business, you know

That we’re there to provide

 By Eimear O'Sullivan