The Night Watchman
The brothel was cold, but inviting and the numbness of her panting, surreal. Unhappiness and self-pity. And then asleep, her snoring pleasurable, gentle in the murky slumber. Foul smells emanate from under the kitchen door, no whisky on the night-table, and then the market fires go out. Written by Jack Brewis
Atop Craigendarroch
I stitched and capered a sinuous ascent through the ferns and treacherous granite traps sharp as you like Knavish roots and vines snatching all the way at my toecaps and reached the summit wheezing like a holed bandoneon The green and ochre scabbed shield chaffed by ancient ice delivering to me the stage upon which
My waitress Mary
Johnny Cash on the Jukebox, Walk the Line. In a truck stop with bloodshot eyes, all-night drivers, and builders in blue jeans with arms as thick as legs. Also travelling salesmen, in cheap suits with frozen faces. I wait for Mary. And on a menu, on a chalkboard, white chalk, blue chalk shadows, powder on