Swallows
In the café on Rue Lepic, I sip on a little green fairy, the Absinthe louche, a cloudy intoxicant storm, a dull release from the absolute, fennel and star anise, the grand wormwood punching in my mouth. And I write fondly about Paris and those little Cathedrals. The sound of the slow dripping water, essential
Little Bird
I watched you die, little bird, how you squirmed, the crazy cat plucking you gracefully from your aborted flight, crimson spurting, eyes rolling loosely as you slipped into limpness, fluid discharging from every orifice, your young opponent, licking chops and feathers wet, bloody whiskers white. For Kari Jeppesen
Brushed Steel
Gentle hands in hard gloves working brushed steel, sparks from a welder’s wheel ricocheting in an arc like fairy sparklers, embers smashing into visor green, becoming nothing, soot and residue collecting cutting white hot into steel, shaping scales on the pinecone, muscles tight under a heavy jacket flexing.
Harvey
‘Blair secret promise to Bush on Iraq Invasion’ On my table, a newspaper, gin and tonic, and a tin of cashews. Tabloid revelations, the nation shocked, no surprise. Deathly silence all around except for muffled whispers about lamb stew, marble cake, and household renovations. No background music, no crooners, no big band. The Prince Albert,
Antiquities
Pastel shades, gold and scarlet, splendid in the evening light. The room was largely decorative with plumes of grey and black and blue. They called it a masterpiece – the papers – and the writer, a collector of textiles and pottery, declared it a success. His wallpaper was a unique blend of colour depicting adventures
Another Journey
Two days in my bedroom with tins of super strength lager and Lucky Strike cigarettes. A headache again, the alcohol surging to inspire, the haze, the frightful hallucinations. Warm sentiments of new friends and visions of cold places abound. Like Dachau. And then I see her waiting in the rain, waiting by my window, cold and lonely,
Mice
I need something else, something other than the hum of silence that carries through my wide-awake bedroom. The heating thermostat clicks on, the temperature dropping to a bitter six below. Relief, some sound. And then my stomach churns after the refried beans at Pedro’s this evening, just before day became night. But mainly it’s that
Photo Albums
The pictures taught him respectability. One of a young Jewish boy with tattered stripes and the yellow ‘Judenstern’. Another of broken bones and ash cloud plumes above chimney stacks. That little boy was upset by the images and he tried to think of other things like runaway horses, iron hooves and the overgrown vegetation of
Charlotte
I asked a girl on a train if I could take her picture. She said yes. It was a small portrait in black and white, with defined shadows and cropped edges. I took many. “Do you like to dance?” she asked. “Yes, but only 70’s disco.” “What about house music, it’s similar to disco?” And
Desideratum
A beautiful rose of England, an English rose sitting on a winter bench reading Brontë, water glistening across a soft summer face, braces in a gentle mouth smiling intently at the young briar-rose of England, an English briar. boys with rosy cheeks, trying to hide nervous smiles, young love delicate.
The Mirror
Her morning tea, a large pot of turmeric and aniseed, a slight diminution from the whiskey, important for digestion and tired liver inflammation. She thinks about the mirror in the classifieds. It could have been hers for a tenner, that round mahogany classic, deep set with a gold trim on a hard frame. Franklyn, the
Christmas Carols
Trombone, Trumpet, Tenor Sax, and Flute. Tightly compressed sound moving through mist to ears all around. Some near, some far, and some by the Ferris wheel. Others sit in the beer garden, nibbling on mince pies and washing down gritty bits with pints of Old Growler. A steaming urn on a dustbin table, and the
Thoughts of a Divine Soul
I couldn’t stop looking at you today, the way you handled that couple, the way you shrugged them off, the way you ate your lunch. It was beautiful and powerful, the awe and grandeur of your being inspiring many, your style and grace encompassing all. Why do the masses idolise you so much, your dedication
Rafters
Taut line of thin manila, rope creaking on dusty rafters swinging. In your shame. On the record player, the crackle of stylus on vinyl dry, Nina Simone in a smoky jazz bar, patrons sipping on cognacs oblivious to your indignity, your shame, your cat alone, and a patch of urine dry, the stench at the
