by J.W. Carey | Oct 22, 2015 | Prose
Dark long subaquarian death like Franco-Irish still birth – cutting fence wire like shaving pubic hair and writhe in foreign riverbeds to avoid the dogs – they climb into Humvees with 50 Cal poetry strapped to the wheels and you can see them sniffing out of the window...
by J.W. Carey | Oct 12, 2015 | Prose
‘You know, the trouble with the whole cog in the machine kind of resignation is that it still justifies inactivity or, rather, a kind of distant activity. It suggests that your existence, that your continued servitude, is essential to the operation of all things; that...
by J.W. Carey | Oct 9, 2015 | Prose
Y’know, we started calling him St. Mina, cos’ of his long, morose face which adopted this weighed down, grey kind of look. His shoulders were slumped, like a scholar’s, and his hands moved in a heavy motion, turning the wheel like he was steering a cruise liner down...
by J.W. Carey | Sep 26, 2015 | Prose
My leg twitches to its alternating self between a gentle vibration and a violent momentum. I try to hold it still and, for long moments, I succeed, until the cold of the broken boiler forces my body to rebel against me once more. I am sat on a shrink-wrapped plastic...
by J.W. Carey | Sep 24, 2015 | Prose
Have you ever done what we did, and taken a drunken walk down Hope Street to capture art in a no cameras allowed zone? Cos’ we caught what we had left there beneath a suspended girder metal roof in aging marketplace with empty stalls amongst the kitchen refurbishments...
by J.W. Carey | Sep 21, 2015 | Prose
The vicaress of Babel’s picking postcards like cutting flower heads from twisted iron stems, and she has them carted back to her palace by her faithful slave Raphael, who’s still serving community sentence for cutting up that prostitute in the 1980s. She thinks she’s...
