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.
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…
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.
out there in the bay tonight, captured in a globe of light, hand over hand over hand, overheard lonely lovers coaxing words from the shortwave static.
and the arrow arched the blue and fell, their voices dimmed and faded. The wave rose silent in the bay. The needle and the vinyl braided. And supine upon the shore, the boy became very calm - a signature is signed - forever. Uneasy invitees, fingering his brow, his seams misread the message in the … Continue reading The music
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.