I see her in a shaded space on the far side of the street, vixen, stood against her trestle, beneath a tarpaulin that shivers. It is draped and slung with floating dresses, throws and scarves; tie-dye collage against a background of movement, of brickwork, of shapes and faces. She is weightless, appears so, almost painted, wears … Continue reading Her Picasso Gift.
cut-up. Nat. Geo/ Boys' Own. watercolour wash. 20" X 30"
I drank Christmas tea this evening and it made me smile. A cinnamoned and gap toothed smile in summertime. I wondered, at the window of an old man, would the stars still be burning in fifty years time? And would there be Russian cake today, as advertised on a chalk sign in the town.
4 [postcard] Portuguese Barbershop. A monochrome snapshot of a man being shaved in a barbershop. The photograph is dated April 1953 and is accredited to Michel Waldmann. Mum and dad had travelled to Portugal a lot around this time (2015), toying with the idea of selling up, renting a remote property there. They … Continue reading Mirror (4).
the very last words that she heard were, “hey, man! they’ve just landed!” it was late one night in ‘69 we laid her out on a big blue blanket. we carried her down to the beach through the town, there was a storm brewing on the atlantic. the needle dropped down and i heard the … Continue reading Side 2 of Beggar’s Banquet.
pulling the compilation tape, that she had lovingly made, from the dashboard of his fiesta, he wished he’d never even met her. he sent it streaming out the window. how he hoped he could forget her. this tape contained the kind of music that he’d really tried to love, or even like. but found … Continue reading it’s complicated.
