'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.
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Am I being noisy or too quiet, dear muse? Politeness, the choice of weapon we choose. We listened to ‘the season of the witch.' This is our secret and how I wish I adored your sleight of hand ways – but... the silent rewriting and riot of this early spring evening on Whitley Bay beach … Continue reading The Byrds fell in love with Bob.
i heard a man with a dry cough. i saw a dog with a leg hacked off. i forgot just what it was to wake up in a mess of hot cloth. the queen's speech don't cut it no more and north of yorkshire it is very rare. Life on the seashore / analogue collage … Continue reading mess of hot cloth
He wore his clown face – brimming with big boned and jumbled features – and smiled. But his bug-blue eyes, when you looked into them, held only reflections of sad and shaded river pools in some other autumn, and beneath the surface shadows and shapes shifted and were unseen again as the beds eddied. In … Continue reading Again, back
the prose she hones (analogue collage 06/11/20 10x10") The prose she hones all winter is wreathed in magic, sex and wonder. Come spring, will she, I ponder, still pen me essays of her darkest hour.
