Had he never misplaced the mojo, he may, he reasoned one evening, have been able to keep a keener eye on his star. But, he sensed, it had fallen. He came to this late. Drew scant detail. Reason, as such, eluded. He dreamed a nearfuture pocket of his being patted. Mojo? He looked up in … Continue reading Dim Star, Mojito & Mojo Rising.
The young lounge the hours on the benches of the dead: their carefully careless hair skew-wiffs caps. Scratched and battered skateboards slung at their outstretched sneakers. Energy drinks clutched in one hand, handset in the other. Sickly, sticky-blue smiles on insect faces. You rarely see anyone riding a board these days. The older guys, sure. … Continue reading The Ancient Skate Punk.
It was chalked on the bog wall and spread quickly round school - a whisper to a chant in the playground. “Pippin’s mum’s only got one tit!” Odd. • We’d played darts at Pippin’s last summer. The house on the corner, halfway up Steep Street. I kept score. We smoked his mum’s cigarettes, drank his … Continue reading Withered Apples.