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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. […]
Sunday, early evening sliding down over the rooftops. there I was in the garden, listening to them. that couple going at each other. screams, rage climbing and splitting, no pause, no breath between. just noise pouring over the fence. the same things they’ve been saying since August. I leaned in, parted the leaves slow so
the fucking heat doesn’t shift. sweat pooling around my collarbones. another dream. the third one since Monday. waking up with the sheet twisted tight around the shins. I can’t remember the script of it, just a hum behind the ears when the eyes snapped open. nothing else moving. not even the tap dripping into the
she starts the day with a pot of turmeric tea. it steams up the window. a half-arsed apology to the liver after the whisky kicked it to pieces all night. outside, the Greenock rain drives straight into the tar. another Sunday. at the table, she thinks about the mirror from the local paper. ten quid.
I sit here half-dead on this rattling train to Wales, and my mind starts cranking out its cheap carnival movie, clear as the sour smell drifting from the toilet in the empty carriage ahead. there I was. cotton candy in the air, popcorn grease, the merry-go-round wheezing like an old whore on her last trick.
the place on Renfield Street. the Pavilion. a dump with velvet seats. the stink of yesterday’s drink. four musicians drag their bones onstage. the trumpet player’s lips are cracked. old pavement. the drummer sweating whisky right through his shirt. they blow the blues anyway. noise. raw. ugly. tickets are still available, plenty of them. cheap
