Polaroid Beneath Tissue.

  A vast and beautiful sadness must have unfolded overnight, because when he awoke in his jumbled sheets, there it was, imbuing everything, and he found himself wondering of her return. Wondering would she be the same? Would she appear to be younger or (somehow) older? Would the tangerine fringe she favoured of late have faded, becoming less lustrous; … Continue reading Polaroid Beneath Tissue.

a sort of masterpiece.

  in an oaked corner of wild field, unzipped, I spilled into a belfast sink at the foot of the fort on Old Rothbury hill, a less than generous piss without thinking -   a skein of hinny spittle and skinny sheep disease, stagnant spring rain, latticed silver wings, windfall twigs and orange leaves and, beneath this scum … Continue reading a sort of masterpiece.

Her Anarchy Baffles (cassettes)

It hasn't all been about counting magpies or indeed any corvid (sic) tally these last few months here at Reeves Mansions. Like everyone else I've had to learn to live with myself; look beneath the bed and find all the things I hid under there; one of which was my Tascam 4 track cassette recorder. … Continue reading Her Anarchy Baffles (cassettes)

Baruther Strasse Cemetery.

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.