Baruther Strasse Cemetery.

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.

rumbling over the severn, my belly thinking my throat’s been cut.

    Dylan Thomas, in First Class, dispatching Rainbow Trout (tatties, peas and half a stout). There's scurf on the shoulders of his tweed ('Howell's of St. Mary St., Cardiff').   Mistook him for a Beatle. "Ringo's in the dining car!"   "A cwtsh for a poxy autograph?" (Who's he think he is! Richard Burton?) … Continue reading rumbling over the severn, my belly thinking my throat’s been cut.

soubriquet.

bad lieutenant had the greasy palm, sought soft fruit solace in an odd shaped bar. supped black sambuca - contracted boozers' arm. couldn't find way out of carrier bag.   caught a tap on the chin from the bristol crow. grew to dislike soubriquet bestowed. reversed tartan, tripled vodka intake flow. couldn't find way out … Continue reading soubriquet.