The Hunger

Plato Rd, libertine academy, in pairs
jackals pass, dealing, sprawled body
kerbside, out cold – worked for him.
Hunting blood category AB negative,
‘I’m just a poor boy,’ I confide, but no
juice and I hate them for being wrong.
This is hell’s fourth circle. Billionaires
man tills, load shelves, detoxing cash
habits with reward points. Hard pulse.
Hunger. And on a dime my luck turns.
But you look too young in your Brioni
suit, a love-bitten throat, AB negative,
waning. Compromise dulls the blood,
tell ‘em, prophet; soon it won’t matter.
Easing off, drawing out the black knife.