Something For The Weakened.

Gnashing medication teeth, orange vintage dungarees, hair adorned with plastic beads (and other Keith Richard bits and pieces), Tin Ribs removes herself from the bus and shows her greeting hand to me. The heel of her palm is pink, I don’t know what this means: but, surely, it don’t bode well. Her wrist, of course, … Continue reading Something For The Weakened.

Inch of Sole/Punk As Fuck.

James in black. Drainpipes, black. Second-best shirts; buttoned to the throat, Dylan and Dylon-black. Fingernails stained, if not from clothes dye, then from varnish, black. He wore double you double you two jackboots: zip-up, calf-high, inch of sole, steel toed, black. Hair, cheap, black. He would sometimes sport a pink TRB button, a lapelled safety … Continue reading Inch of Sole/Punk As Fuck.

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 was taping the fourth corner of a large poster of Bob … Continue reading The Bristol Arm.