everything unpainted

  unfolded sheets and cornered pages, cobalt, rising from the blanket, found a world within the drawer -   everything unpainted.   the velour shadow of the curtain, quiet and thin and barely moving, bows before the wounded evening -   everything unpainted.      

rumbling over the severn, my belly thinking my throat’s been cut.

    Dylan Thomas, in First Class, dispatching Rainbow Trout (tatties, peas and half a stout). There's scurf on the shoulders of his tweed ('Howell's of St. Mary St., Cardiff').   Mistook him for a Beatle. "Ringo's in the dining car!"   "A cwtsh for a poxy autograph?" (Who's he think he is! Richard Burton?) … Continue reading rumbling over the severn, my belly thinking my throat’s been cut.

Prompts for future conversation.

Of clearing her father’s house in Enfield, she would only stand to say, “Have you ever tried to sell a baby grand? Or even given one away?”   After forever it was all that was left. Guess this world has little need for a baby grand beneath a paper lampshade, on the quiet parquet.   … Continue reading Prompts for future conversation.

Her Picasso Gift.

I see her, Little Annie, 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 … Continue reading Her Picasso Gift.