London

"Sodomites!" They scream in the street.
 
Six smokers choke on the back of a silver Unimog. 15.55pm.
The smog drowns their small, pale and shabby faces.
Sam has no dreams steaming in his eyes as they pull up - not flying South for Winter or salivating over a softly-spoken bride.
No, his pipe in the Sky is laid like burnt yellow on snow
and the blow of loneliness has secreted gold into his soul.
 
Stumbled through my door, he did. He did and stuttered and swept past,  
all a huff and a grunt away from affection.  
Down- down-
in the dank mines where many men lose their minds  
to a splinter of light in the pitch.
In the stark, he'll save his cheques and mix me any worth from scathing words, wicked sobriety and solitude.  
 
In Satis house, I kiss his stern brow. As if he were decaying he slugs onto the couch - never again to move. Never, yes, never. As the bitter, Stella Artois nation sprawl themselves and stay in their own sick and stool-stink and sperm.
Miss. Havisham would be defiled. We, he and I, I and he, succumb to the silence, with a sporadic license. I try to humour him, in the back-room, beneath sheets with the sweetest love.  
Yet it is squalid, our time is short and Sam, poor Sam is empty.
 
"Sodomites!" They scream in the street.