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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. […]
blow by blow, the drummer’s foot stomps that pedal like she’s kicking the world in the ribs, cymbals crashing silver in the dim, hi-hat, chick-chick-chick in a wild solo to nowhere and everywhere. there she plays under the hot spotlight, the girl with the brushes and the furious heart, beating it out while the room
the tube’s jammed tighter than a whorehouse on payday, bodies mashed up like sardines in a tin that’s been kicked down the stairs one too many times. they say lambs to the slaughter get more room to wiggle before the knife, and right now I believe it. I’ve got some poor bastard’s armpit parked under
outside, on a spread of lawn behind the fishpond, the thick heat of the day finally lifting. tender pepper chicken, a splash of water, the old man talking in his low, gravelly drone. the same stories I’ve heard all my life, looping in the quiet air. dinner with grandfather. pockets of cropped moonlight break along
I’m sunk deep in this old armchair, the one with the springs poking through like bad memories, and the room’s half-lit, half-dead, snow still spitting at the window. the clock’s oak pendulum swings back and forth, steady as a slow heartbeat, counting me out. I’m just letting go, sliding down easy into the booze and
two days of nothing in this little bedroom cell, tins of super-strength lager stacked like golden buddhas on the desktop, lucky strikes burning, one after another, till the air’s a thick blue smoke. and me, I’m just pounding the keys and staring at the ceiling where the cracks look like an x-ray of something broken
