a barefoot shuffle did evolve on the blue and orange rug around which, from heel to toe, we did not speak, but listened to side one of beggars banquet. the silent television screen (in the mirror) shows the moon from the window of our room [space] hoo-hoo "tranquility"
the thinner spectre of the two, pale and serene and half in shadow, from the creases of the curtain, floats a plaintive lullaby - her song for sleepless children. "this plastic fort for a painted cowboy, this tepee for a brave. this mountain range of books to read 'The Kid took the reins and … Continue reading her song for sleepless children
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)
'In a shed out the back of seventy one she hammered bird shapes from metal for business and fun. Sparked feathers became an impossible swan; trumpeter black from raincloud of iron.' I recalled these lines from an earlier scene... and thought, I'd play him now almost the same. The same, but slightly differently - in … Continue reading an impossible swan.
Letter to The Times Sir - I cannot abide the slender new volume, The Selected Gush (1880-1910). But, who among us, in all honesty, could say they've never once been smitten by her louche, languid lines of lust (described in this very journal as 'fin de siècle erotica')? No! Neither I! I've annotated her verse … Continue reading The Selected Gush (1880-1910)
You left for the bathroom. I wiped the bar clean. Some things, I suppose, are better unsaid. Sometimes the news we receive is so mean. “Country and western is dead.” Some things, I suppose, are better unsaid. You searched your sleeve for a tissue. “Country and western is dead?” I leaned over the bar, tried … Continue reading Country & Western is Dead.
