Uncle Patrick
In a dirty, dingy dive, in a dire haze of old memories, I sit with Uncle Patrick, dead quiet as always, with his Campari and Soda to soothe his sad loneliness and thoughts of life in disorder. That’s all he ever mumbled about at our local in town, our kind of joint, sticky underfoot, tables
Neptune’s Crown
My daughter called it Neptune’s crown, I guess it was. Once a shiny hubcap from a ‘76 Chevy, before it came off and rolled into the river. Now little tiddlers swim through its stalks of aluminium that rise up like masts on a forgotten wreck. It’s from a Chevy, I can tell from the shape of the
Seafood Special
He sneezes into the crook of his elbow, a childhood habit. 80-odd years and nothing changes. A strand of snotty mucus bridges the gap from his nose to his arm as he reaches for a napkin, still smeared with oily bits from the seafood special. Bloody boozy veins on a bulbous Merlot nose, face and head
Che Guevara
The humidity stifles, we gasp, the east-bound underground, choking. Toddlers groan while mothers pacify, bending down to offer water and comfort or soothers while lecherous old men in Savile Row suits peer down summer blouses for planned peeks at the peaks of perfection, perspiration on brown nipples, the masses abounding. We sit on fake velvet
Layla
I found you in the newspaper on page 33, but sometimes, your sweet innocence annoys me like hell. But then I understand, how your life has become what it is, a worthless degree in a murky recession. You stayed over for three nights, and told me how your father drank in derelict rooms on the
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
The Artist
It was a private screening, no appointment needed. A final masterpiece. Like an artist’s art, it was modern with strokes of gaudy colour, thick applications, no planning or design. It was on a large canvas of magnolia, an ideal wash of matt, a clock against the border, framed complete with some brick exposed, wire from
The Priesthood
A dormitory and a single bed, two chairs and a corner window. Moments in solitude, time to reflect. In the distance, the low hills. Twenty-three weeks until the harvest and the priesthood, ploughing the fields, working the mill, the school of the soul. In between scriptures, he stacked bails and scrubbed floors in the old
The Fairy
She arrived after lunch, on Sunday at around 2pm. Beautiful in white and brown, dancing and floating between aisles in a vortex of air on the slow train to London. Suspended, afloat, she made her way into the baggage area, across the seats, and through a valley of hard-back suitcases. And then, up into the