March 5th 2013 (Llandudno) Jonathan X, the organiser of the Save Our Funicular festival, has assured us that we can crash at his house. He has appalling body odour and a tiny, plastic dragon perches on the top of his bald head. His pate is painted green. He wafts around the venue with one hand … Continue reading Notes From a Fragile Island. 17
Penn Beacon. October 26th 2019 23:00 Home late last night from London. The train was slow, but I don't know or remember the reason given. I was exhausted from the journey, from the solid shape of work. I unpacked a bag and repacked it with different stuff. I downloaded my boarding pass, prompting the usual … Continue reading Run As Fast As You Can, Bear.
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).
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.
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