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.

Unable to sleep…

He took a knuckle of tobacco - naked but for a blanket cloak - in the moonlight of the kitchen, smoked a length of cigarette. He drank a cup of tea.   He drank a cup of tea - rolled another cigarette - on the pre dawn carpet shapes the birdsong calling from the shadow. … Continue reading Unable to sleep…

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.