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Copyright Seeing it First Hand 2026 | Theme by ThemeinProgress
Written by jackbrewis
forty-five years on, and the memory blows back through my skull like smoke from a tailpipe. that day rushing in. a breeze pushing cherry blossoms around the churchyard. petals swirl down on the stone. soft. useless. the incense finds my nostrils. a thin grey ghost of smoke curls up from the wick of a candle. […]
red lips parted just enough to promise trouble, and me with my battered brass Zippo from ’86, hinge still catching like it remembered every heartbreak, grinding the wheel slow till the sooty flame whooshed up wild, orange-blue dancing the old cliche dance, kerosene stinging sweet right in the veins. she sucked hard on the New
there I was, sprawled in the dim light of my room, bottle half-empty on the floor, the drink going hot through me. I thought of Doctor Smirnov in the East End, his little practice with the cracked linoleum and the waiting room that smelled of old magazines and fear. I saw those posters on his
I needed petrol – 5 litres to get me there and the rest for the process. A small price to pay, running on empty, the urine already cold on my winter jeans, stinking on my frozen legs, a dreadful trembling fear. the hard stench of black tobacco fills my nostrils, my last few cigarettes, another
the schoolyard’s a cheap bar at closing time, and he’s the last burning match in the ashtray, like the sun with a five o’clock shadow, standing there in scuffed boots and yesterday’s shirt, smoking those little rollups. the planets roll in — tired eyes, soft hips — pushing prams with snot-nosed little moons strapped inside,
she blew in after the lunch bells had faded. Sunday, round two in the afternoon. Beautiful in a pale whirl, dancing and floating between aisles in the vortex air of the slow train rumbling toward London. suspended there, afloat in the rattle and sway of the rails. she drifted into the baggage jungle, over the
