her ghost.

still i find her, on the sill, in the fading birthday flowers, in the thirsty vase. a stray hair in the bath, her scrawl on some scrap paper. a receipt, screwed in denim. pocket and breathe for a moment, forever, her sillage as I pass the chair she favoured. i hear her songs; of course, her … Continue reading her ghost.

The Bristol Arm.

[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.

No wig, no gig.

"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.