donate some more american pie, turn out, top-shelf, reward of pliny. rear up and spear, spoon and sprout. and soon send several suppers weekly. she knew there was something wrong with the elders - kids hidden in the men of yesterday's pages, spoke of weal, sopping papers, misbehaviour. put up the hunt was the trick … Continue reading spoke of weal
The shape of The Shale Basin, soon to be wintered, shading the bed of the Puget Sound, etching, at anchor, an orbit in the near-frozen water, caught between kelp and canopy of cloud. Low, early December sunlight casting long shadows, shafting the surface; an ever-complicated dance. Slow repetition, return and feign of … Continue reading The Shale Basin.
There aren't so many pirates at the pirate party. Mostly, it's just people at a party. Dizzy, though, who I haven't seen since Lemons, him and me spent that week in Cornwall, is stood at the window, staring at the sea. He has a blackjoke, plastic pirate patch over one eye. It has a skull … Continue reading The Pirate Party.
In this window, dried driftwood burns on the beach. And in this window, camellia seed scents the sheets. And, in this window, silhouettes arc and cartwheel and leap. In this window, bells peal and the moth on the duvet counts sheep. They sense they are too far away to inhale all these … Continue reading Silhouettes.
Had he never misplaced the mojo, he may, he reasoned one evening, have been able to keep a keener eye on his star. But, he sensed, it had fallen. He came to this late. Drew scant detail. Reason, as such, eluded. He dreamed a nearfuture pocket of his being patted. Mojo? He looked up in … Continue reading Dim Star, Mojito & Mojo Rising.
'An easy to moderate climb', the guidebook promises. But, halfway up Catbells' spine, she turns to me and says, "I can't carry on anymore." We had followed in footprints of dead Roman legions. I'd even seen her walking on her hands on Tynemouth beaches. But, she can't carry on anymore. We covered … Continue reading An Easy To Moderate Climb.