if i can, with a glance, find focus in this disarray, it may be in the raising of the glass that we sip or your eyes as they lift to mine, gazing on your lips smiling and dismayed.
Sam crossed the ankledeep, blackrain street, and setting his back to it, stepped up to the redbricked Rotten Fox. The panes glowed yellowblack and orange. He capped his brow, saluted the glass and glimpsed her therein, almost at once, a rose among ruins. The carpet was threadbare last century. It wonders what these new feet … Continue reading Threadbare Last Century.
There is little in the way of illumination beyond the come hither of the one-arm bandit, the dim bulbs and the fluorescents striping in repeat in the mirror behind the teak. She works the tables, throwing hello, hello, hello. He orders a drink and he admires her over the rim. Eventually, she nudges him at … Continue reading Grotesque The Glass.
I see her, Little Annie, in a shaded space on the far side of the street, vixen, stood against her trestle, beneath a tarpaulin that shivers. It is draped and slung with floating dresses, throws and scarves; tie-dye collage against a background of movement, of brickwork, of shapes and faces. She is weightless, appears so, almost … Continue reading Her Picasso Gift.
6 [business card]: Kelly Jayne, BA, MA. Artist. Art Psychotherapist. * Distant Bells. Parade of grave shoes. Their shadows shrink and loom. He believes he sees them, so he sees them. He watches them askew. They hover and pass, never ending. The shadows were drawn to this place, he imagined, by … Continue reading Mirror (6): Distant Bells.
I drank Christmas tea this evening and it made me smile. A cinnamoned and gap toothed smile in summertime. I wondered, at the window of an old man, would the stars still be burning in fifty years time? And would there be Russian cake today, as advertised on a chalk sign in the town.