He was late sixties maybe. Galway accent. Denim jacket. Beard. Kristofferson look. Bonnet open, Toyota, side of the road, hoping something might happen. He'd been there a while. Contemplating the engine, listening to the scream of the traffic on the bypass. I pulled in. Asked him the rhetorical: 'Everything ok?' 'The car just stopped.' 'Stopped?'… Continue reading Nice warm chips.
He works in a small town and decides he's got a voice and wants to be an artist. Things the kid wants to do, things the kid wants to say. Most nights he drinks to stop him thinking and hopes to sleep but can never quite get there. Some voice, some emotional turmoil, something wrong… Continue reading Notes on the real artist.