I rent three rooms at the upper lip of England and if I squint the north sea rattles the window. I hum a vague melody. I pocket paper scraps and treasure found in the street. I count every magpie, last tally, they numbered 10. Which is rare.
When the dog bites, when the bee stings…
notebooks and scissoring ‘zines.
Collage, ginger, broccoli (steamed).
Smiling, to-do lists, sleeping.
Nabokov, camping, Lou Reed.
Spider plants, cats and dogs, the rain.
‘Horses’ is still the greatest rnr debut.
Dylan, charity shops, MF DOOM.
Anecdote, story, dream.
Bellerby, Eno, lighthouses, tea.
Low tide, frown lines, Tom Drury.
Berlin. The moon. Penn Beacon.
Whitman, Seinfeld, The Fall.
Rama-lama-ding-dong, beach combing, baths.
Breathing. Scrambled egg. Strong women, nervous men:
Peter Cook, all my friends.
The truth in the margin.
This way please > Dead Fox In Mid Seventies.