NB and I have traded letters and postcards since 2005. I always look forward to his correspondence and keep them, unopened, on the mantelpiece until I need a little pick-me-up. Last week I began a difficult reply to his latest, but this morning I finished it and folded the 5 sheets and the ephemera, found … Continue reading Palm Sunday correspondence (excerpt)
Behind his shades, beneath the sliding cloud, he turned onto Baruther Strasse. He walked through the cemetery with its spray paint brickwork and its green wreathed stones and its cold clean stones and testaments. He walked, revenant, among the dead, over the rising shadows of the pigeons and the yew tree, remembering - suddenly and all … Continue reading Baruther Strasse Cemetery.
Teasing out a tune from a borrowed horn, in a rented room, in Kreuzberg. I breathe in the perfume of the afternoon - I taste bottled beer and oranges. The shadows rise as the sunlight falls. The sparrows in the scaffold sing. In 10962. Two punks sitting on a painted wall - … Continue reading Postcard From Kreuzberg.
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