Fish Man squats Fatima Mansions, a tumbledown townhouse on Pentonville Square. The building is in all day shadow behind iron tooth-pick railings on a scrap of dirt. The windows are boarded and the front door padlocked. But the board at this window, here, is a sham. It is nailed once at the top of the … Continue reading The Hollow Men.
1 Time passed like what it does waiting for dinner to cook and then PING, one day, a Tuesday or a Monday or something, the ugly folk of Twelve Shitty Acres got a break. One of them, an orange coloured dolly who went by the name of Lil-Let, came home with a little stapled book. … Continue reading Twelve Shitty Acres.
Meet Me In The Morning/cassettes (Dylan) Happy Birthday Bob! The Bristol Arm. [I’m reposting this from a couple of years back as it’s Bob Dylan’s birthday today – keep on keeping on. Peace x] Martin Kettle, formally of Stoneyclough but now resident of Penn Beacon, was stood on a table in the Eight Kings. He … Continue reading Meet Me In the Morning.
Short story 8 minutes Downfall - short story excerpt
Rabbit gazed with fairly no unease, like this, over the awkward shapes issuing, one by one by one by one from her own soft mouth and she sounded (to these hot ears) to be speaking from just behind the curtain; almost-present. She roller coasted her eyes around her nose and I liked it. So, she … Continue reading Behind the curtain
8 [photocopy of a snapshot] I cut Lillian's hair every twelfth week, dry it every sixth. It grows. I cut it. I dry it. It has become grey by increments; city pigeon to autumn noon, fading print to cigarette ash. Each accretion of tone slowly highlighting further her pink brittle cheeks, the pools … Continue reading Mirror (8): Pale Airman.
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