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 Dylan's face to the wall at the end of the bar. "No, no, Sam," he was saying. "It's ‘uff’, not ‘ow’. Stoneyclough." He … Continue reading The Bristol Arm.
My future ex-wife is a parchment faced German emigre called Amelie. She's a striking albino with matted hair that, inevitably, every winter grows to such a length that it falls across her coat-wire shoulders like, oh, epaulettes, or wings. Amelie cuts her locks back with kitchen scissors every new year's eve to her jaw, or … Continue reading How I met my future ex-wife.
Fading This is from when he was still a young boy; hip-slung, just so; nothing very much to say. Three lances of sunlight, emanating from beyond the top right-hand corner, fall forever across the photograph, piercing a number of the sitters - pupils and teachers. The headmaster (Mr. D) - front row, centre - has … Continue reading Fading Beehive.
1. Toby's. 'Some of this grease is from sixty-six.' Slim. High-waisters; Levis'-greased; belted; (sometimes braced). Younger than I am now. Watched the waiters. Watched their edges. Whatever you want is a flat-top.
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.
one hair of her is adhered to the bathtub tonight & the way it is signed there is a bittersweet sight. i try to find meaning in its pale tangerine, tease pleasure from her signature divine. &, as i soak, i stroke with my finger, her porcelain leaving, into the shape of a heart.
nickreeves 