a bowlegged woman and a woe betide gent and a worrisome teen with marker pens, come suddenly through the door. Over the rim of his jar, he decides them, "a very rum number indeed."
Constructed mainly from beach twigs, guano and grey weed, a clutch of eke nests clung in the eaves and the guttering and the once-upon-a-time Prussian Blue splintered window frame of the attic. The weed scratched at the glass when the sanded wind blew in off the bay which, between October and May, was always. The … Continue reading Tiny Spines.
The sky is vibes, Knott. Vibes. I heard a tiny humming in the pear orchard. It came from a tear in the quiet. A tan tide of vinegar flies were feasting on the scrump and they drew me, so I crouched. And, ankled in the pale night grass, I perceived another humming within. Just as … Continue reading A Tiny Humming.
New Brighton - where the sun shines, even when it rains. As he leaves the shadow of the station, Sam is bathed in a sense of being on holiday, of being abroad, of being. The sun shines on New Brighton. He puts on his green shades. The sky is bigger here; the seagulls, unlike the … Continue reading New Brighton
The dark public bar of the Eight Kings is daubed, this afternoon, with three broad strokes of sunlight pouring through the windows suffusing everything touched with honeyed shafts, crowning shadows. Reflected in the mirror behind the teak jump, among the faces gathered, the smoke, the bottles, the glasses, a caged and colourful fruit machine trills … Continue reading Into The Light.
Gnashing medication teeth, orange vintage dungarees, hair adorned with plastic beads (and other Keith Richard bits and pieces), Tin Ribs removes herself from the bus and shows her greeting hand to me. The heel of her palm is pink, I don’t know what this means: but, surely, it don’t bode well. Her wrist, of course, … Continue reading Something For The Weakened.