Here’s another thing I wrote years ago approximately 1980 but the illustrations were done last month.
Reclining in cars – the odd word stuck into the cream-pie of conversation – while outside – bloated fish swim belly-upwards in opaque canals.
Waiting, tapping on the roof, holy terrors grip slowly round, their bulbous eyes crane inquiringly – someone’s Boss imitates – pint on bar – insane glare – arms pounce out – slowly picks up beer – frothing at the mouth.
Perfume in cold tightened corridors, dripping downwards, forming pools, crystalling, lit up by cigar-lighters, fumbled and then dropped, burning through the floor and down through the world, the underworld, out the other side, a long way down.
Seeing hearts in stores, under garages, ornamental gardens, descending and ascending – even without seeing – bad breed, bad blood.
Whistling at windows and shunting in cars, little self-conscious taps of the feet, dripping half-rhythms trickling aromas no nose can smell.
Dream-tornados wheeze through run-down wooden houses.
Rivers like grins, crescent or twisted, sticking into bays, then starting out again.