The Bristol Arm.

Featured

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.

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.

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