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black fat rain-like on that duffle coat day
Would be November as we had gutted the bangers and made big ones in bean tin shells strong enough to burst like splinter farts. I had sulphur and a lighter, Steve T had petrol, Steve B had detonators from the railway sheds. These orange cordite eggs ready to fry or batter were a treat. Tramping down the St Mary’s we passed the Lullingstone where belly fat cropped menboys heeled the walls like storks and drank straights from fists. The estate is dark, lit by yellow piss-stained walks planted with white dog crusts. Down a hole crouching toad-like we lit up and petrol blue seared the night fog frost with waving flares and bangs and slaps so loud that springing drunk with acrid smoke we drank our reddest hate till the policeman popped by. “Pig down pig.” Pushed flat back across the flames. His black skin we tore a strip by striped strip into scraps that sang in the sulphurous flames. Our eggs blew his thighs and eyes and thumbs like raspberries. Then we set about scoffing these scraps in our slab-patched estate of stale grey wheatabricks with the best smoked streaky we had ever tasted.
December 28, 2014