4 [postcard] Portuguese Barbershop. A monochrome snapshot of a man being shaved in a barbershop. The photograph is dated April 1953 and is accredited to Michel Waldmann. Mum and dad had travelled to Portugal a lot around this time (2015), toying with the idea of selling up, renting a remote property there. They … Continue reading Mirror (4).
I rarely see myself in the day mirror anymore, having learned to disappear myself. The day mirror has become my third eye. The day mirror allows me to become magnificent, mercurial. I enter and leave it at will. Within its frame, I free range and, despite being close enough to kiss your ear, I look … Continue reading Mirror (1-3).
Night rattles the tiles, the street glass roils, reflects traffics of cars, faces. Moon, too, yes. But, no star arcs in raindrops; shoeshine puddles even the paving. Trainbent, late, and suddenly lost. Of the first to cross the mouth of the concourse, I ask direction, but with apology he passes without pause. A near full … Continue reading Box of light.
I took the train home from the airport. It was the same journey as it had been earlier, except that now it was in reverse and I was alone, reflecting. The cloud was cold against the glass, a jet plane rose into the cumulus brew. I set my face, my ear really, against the window … Continue reading American Clouds & Greyhound Shapes.
Cromarty, Forth, Dogger, Tyne, toward these fields, we incline, a-settle & give rise, beneath the tumbled sheets of sea. We upstream. We breathe, we climb. We endeavour, we aspire to a sky beyond this ladder.
If all that remained on my screen was her filth, I would, at worst, still stand proud of a morn. And as fade became thrill, I'd sing the praises of bleach & the bleed of her film. If all that remained was the trace of her, the print or the stain of the milk … Continue reading If Whitman Sang Alabama.