[I'm reposting this from a couple of years back as it's Bob Dylan's birthday today - keep on keeping on. Peace x] Martin Kettle, formally of Stoneyclough but now resident of Penn Beacon, was stood on a table in the Eight Kings. He was taping the fourth corner of a large poster of Bob … Continue reading The Bristol Arm.
shadows. here is mine - here is yours. from our soles, each footfall followed. never hand in hand beneath the ceiling, rising, twinning at the window - swallowed at the closing door.
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.
One Guy Fawkes' Night - which will add only some vague, meagre and purely incidental, albeit handy, visual and historical, romantic poetics to this otherwise quite ordinary detailing of a boy, a girl, a guest, a cat and heroin addiction - I discovered a tiny shadow at the front door. It mouthed its black miaow, … Continue reading Apricity.
All the guests had left the table, and indeed the bright room, to dance to a quintet that had struck up, with some vigour, a milonga out in the blue stone courtyard beneath the carved moon. Their chairs were left all at odds, scattered, vacated; pushed away from the table. Only the two of them … Continue reading First the milonga, then the tango.
16/04/20 She works at an Our Price record shop. She wears a white shirt with a little rectangle badge on the breast that reads V. Ward. Of course, I recognise her long before I am close enough to read the badge. We hug. "I thought you were a teacher." "Oh, not yet," she says. "Not … Continue reading dream diaries… 85
