"Bow low to the cello, French horn & bellows." Her songs barrel in the barroom beams. Her Samba unravels. She learned in the mirror the poems of Brazilian queens. The elegant prose, she hones all through winter, is wreathed in magic & music & dreams. collage & acrylic … Continue reading Barroom beams.
out there in the bay tonight, captured in a globe of light, hand over hand over hand, overheard lonely lovers coaxing words from the shortwave static.
Ffooks mums got one fucking bosom! This assertive oddity, surly odd ditty, this ode to an odd titty, with its grammatical shortcomings, is rendered in white chalk on the door of the third cubicle in the boys’ lavatory. It appeared among the bristling graffiti galaxy the first week of January and will serve as good … Continue reading The Satellites & The Major Planets.
and the arrow arched the blue and fell, their voices dimmed and faded. The wave rose silent in the bay. The needle and the vinyl braided. And supine upon the shore, the boy became very calm - a signature, a sign forever. Uneasy invitees, fingering his brow, his seams misread the message in the braille. But … Continue reading The music
Perhaps I'm more intrigued with the ghost of John Simon Ritchie - useless musician, drug addict, spiteful bully, sneering poster boy - than I imagine? He returns to haunt me only ever once a year; I hear his rattling padlocked chain and the drag of those stolen engineer boots before I see him. Oh, but I … Continue reading Tea Stained.
21/01/20 Miki from Lush, the band not the brand. But just what about her I could not say. 23/01/20 An oily and grease stained garage workshop, complete with a pit, an ersatz office space stinking of ashtray, petrol spill, an old and sad alsatian and a general air of 1986 body odour - … Continue reading dream diaries…79