Paul putt-putted her brow with two kisses and this seemed to me most fitting. Then, with some gargantuan and comedic effort, he clambered from the carpet, through the air to the bed and sat upon it, exhausted and pale in the candlelight. Paul peered into the compact, caught his breath and pouted. Have a go, he … Continue reading Sally, too.
Ffooks mums got one fucking bosom! This assertive oddity, surly odd ditty, this ode to an odd titty, with its grammatical shortcomings, is rendered in white chalk on the door of the third cubicle in the boys’ lavatory. It appeared among the bristling graffiti galaxy the first week of January and will serve as good … Continue reading The Satellites & The Major Planets.
"You’re telling me, when you went to church as a kid, you never got an orange with a candle stuck in it?" "An orange?" "Christmas orange." "At Christmas?" "Uh huh. With a candle." "Don't think I ever went to church as a kid." "Hmm. Well, you got this orange, okay, with a candle stuck in … Continue reading No wig, no gig.
the wardrobe in the corner, high, not quite to the ceiling. and, one night, napoleonic, a guardsman, there, crouched. black boots to his chin. arms wrapped around his knees. brass buttons, gold braid, red tunic. dust marks brushed the evening. sabre, trapped. scabbard, palmed and yellow skin. he is speaking the french language … Continue reading very faintly.
the thinner spectre of the two, serene and pale and half in shadow, from the creases of the curtain, floats a plaintive lullaby into the swollen greenwich evening. her song for sleepless children. 'a painted fort for poorly cowboys, a teepee for the squaw and chieftain. a mountain range of wooden blocks to … Continue reading the moon before.
Dylan Thomas, in First Class, dispatching Rainbow Trout (tatties, peas and half a stout). There's scurf on the shoulders of his tweed ('Howell's of St. Mary St., Cardiff'). Mistook him for a Beatle. "Ringo's in the dining car!" "A cwtsh for a poxy autograph?" (Who's he think he is! Richard Burton?) … Continue reading rumbling over the severn, my belly thinking my throat’s been cut.