i'll wear your clothes to protect me, to feel like you do. humming vaguely in the bathroom, i will pause at the glass, hexed. exchanging a borrowed view. we really should get going soon.
a borrowed view.
Category: Short fiction
Sweat Lodge Construction.
There was an imaginable enough group gathered that evening - certainly Wax Noyle was there. Steve Arse (Ears to his face. Arse behind his back), Punk Wayne, Magic Sam and Little Annie. They were seated at a trio of tables in the front window of The Eight Kings. This would have been sometime prior to … Continue reading Sweat Lodge Construction.
a continuous slide.
behind a bending fence, bowed and ivy veined, the sad garden grows, unbound, around your father's house. the vicar passes an envelope to you, pencilled with the word - piano - and begins to play something glissando. where flowers grew, fingers potted. ashes into earth and creasing paper: john 6: 1 - 14, we listened … Continue reading a continuous slide.
Some hems, some hums, some uh-huhs.
They sat around in the low light and the blue smoke of the room and after a while he picked up a guitar and started to strum some rudimentary chords, plucking triads and tripping harmonics and, believing he was, of a sudden, some rough blues man, he began to throw in some hems, some hums, … Continue reading Some hems, some hums, some uh-huhs.
More than a century later
The Colour of The Crabmeat.
Medication teeth, rotund in dungarees, grey dreads adorned with beads (and other Keith Richard knickknacks), Jessica shows a greeting hand. Bangles singing. In and out of the lobster and bronze crowd to The Standard. Dialects bubbling, a foam of voice. The gulls loom and retreat and shadow the pale sand, the bodies. Beyond this, the … Continue reading The Colour of The Crabmeat.
