Tail-end of October, scat rain on skylight glass, the loosest jazz all afternoon. Too soon the window darkens. Perhaps, in Friedrichshain (between the wars), I wonder, or Whitley Bay, for one more season, a matinée plays for someone taking tea and toast with honey. The street lights come on one by one, a standing ovation, … Continue reading Tea and Toast with Honey (in A♭)
if there's anything you feel should be done - be it dishes or a visit to berlin or llandudno - then do it.
James in black. Drainpipes, black. Second-best shirts; buttoned to the throat, Dylan and Dylon-black. Fingernails stained, if not from clothes dye, then from varnish, black. He wore double you double you two jackboots: zip-up, calf-high, inch of sole, steel toed, black. Hair, cheap, black. He would sometimes sport a pink TRB button, a lapelled safety … Continue reading Inch of Sole/Punk As Fuck.
Behind his shades, beneath the sliding cloud, he turned onto Baruther Strasse. He walked through the cemetery with its spray paint brickwork and its green wreathed stones and its cold clean stones and testaments. He walked, revenant, among the dead, over the rising shadows of the pigeons and the yew tree, remembering - suddenly and all … Continue reading Baruther Strasse Cemetery.
The man woke early from a wonderful dream convinced that he could speak German. And, to some extent this was true. Ausgezeichnet! he said quietly. His wife arched her comma shape into him. Ein wundershön traum, he said into her hair, but his voice was sticky and thick in his throat, full of cold, as … Continue reading Always in the distance.
October 29th 2019. Noon. Schöneberg. Sat at the bar in the Café Nostalgie at Crellestrasse 22 with the locals at noon, drinking Berliner Kindls, Monika's little hound, Shirley, listens to the scraps of German, scraps of English being passed between us. A Jimi Hendrix bootleg plays over the old system. After sometime I ask for directions … Continue reading Run As Fast As You Can, Bear.