Rock N Roll Is Dead

Lunch time. AM/PM. Belfast.

Happiness is a question of gravity

Minorca, Baléares. 

Saturday talk to my hand.

springtime or the living made easy

Heart. Dublin. 2007.

the complete random shot after one, two, three shots...

Les oubliés

she comes from somewhere - Charles BUKOWSKI

probably from the belly button or from the shoe under the bed, or maybe from the mouth of the shark or from the car crash on the avenue that leaves blood and memories scattered on the grass. she comes from love gone wrong under an asphalt moon. she comes from screams stuffed with cotton. she comes from hands without arms and arms without bodies and bodies without hearts. she comes out of cannons and shotguns and old victrolas. she comes from parasites with blue eyes and soft voices. she comes out from under the organ like a roach. she keeps coming. she’s inside of sardine cans and letters. she’s under your fingernails pressing blue and flat. she’s the signpost on the barricade smeared in brown. she’s the toy soldiers inside your head poking their lead bayonets. she’s the first kiss and the last kiss and the dog’s guts spilling like a river. she comes from somewhere and she never stops coming.

me, and that old woman: sorrow.