Martin Kettle, once of Stoneyclough (the pronunciation, if I remember correctly, being ‘-cluff’ rather than ‘-clow’), a town a long way north of here, but now resident of Penn Beacon, was stood on a table in the Eight Kings. He was busy sellotaping the corner of a large poster of Bob Dylan high up onto … Continue reading The Bristol Arm.
Piccolo Knives.
When I saw you last, talking too fast, with your Gauloises & your Cola - well, it just makes you look older to me. It was dark in there, yes, I know. But I swear it said Bay City Rollers on that scarf wrapped round your neck & shoulders. Were you feeling cold, dear? … Continue reading Piccolo Knives.
dream diaries…44
October 17th 2018 Jayne L and I are paddling a canoe upriver. The warm, dark water breaks over the bow. There is a long and low, wet, wooden jetty stretching out from the dense green bank. It would be hidden in shadow if not for the strings of fairylights draped along it. We paddle … Continue reading dream diaries…44
The Ancient Skate Punk.
The young lounge the hours on the benches of the dead: their carefully careless hair skew-wiffs caps. Scratched and battered skateboards slung at their outstretched sneakers. Energy drinks clutched in one hand, handset in the other. Sickly, sticky-blue smiles on insect faces. You rarely see anyone riding a board these days. The older guys, sure. … Continue reading The Ancient Skate Punk.
Vespers.
They sat on the doorstep at the back of the flats. They came every evening, as summer elapsed, to smoke and trade hushed nothings and somethings and to wait for the pipistrelle bat. They sat with their knees drawn and sometimes she stretched and he admired her legs and he rolled tobacco, licking the … Continue reading Vespers.
Postcard From Kreuzberg.
Someone's teasing out a tune from a borrowed horn, in a rented room, in Kreuzberg. She breathes in the perfume of the afternoon - tastes bottled beer and oranges. The shadows rise as the sunlight falls. The sparrows in the scaffold sing. In 10962. Two punks sitting on a painted wall - … Continue reading Postcard From Kreuzberg.
Jackdaws & Witches
scratches in the sunlight/…cassettes Jackdaws & witches tapping watches, stripping you to the bone. Some still can't say your name without stretching all the wrong vowels. I hear your voice. I'm ankle-deep in bluebells. My red penknife unfolds, I'm scratching your initials. Trapdoors every Monday morning. Cornflowers, my boots are soiled. The grey birds, … Continue reading Jackdaws & Witches
