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Tag Archives: James Dowling
On my occasional visits back home, I would make a point of surprising my sisters and my mother by waiting for them in their favourite café. Since this was a regular happening, we would joke about the surprise that wasn’t, … Continue reading
I lived there once; thought I would never leave. There are tracer-beams strafing the night sky; cemeteries stretching like satellite towns. The Humvee-dead are crawling through checkpoints, shoulders to the wheel, eyes fixed on rear-view. In the reptile house, serpents … Continue reading
I cannot get back to you right now: I have lost my passport to a starship trooper. What’s more, I have become deaf to your dog-whistle Entreaties. So, blow me. George Orwell was right: a soufflé won’t rise under 500c. … Continue reading
All that everyday stuff shaking with thought: the grief-filled hands of the clock in the hall, the meditative chairs and beds, the stair pondering its own silence, the photos on the wall, sighing, whispering – bony fingers pointing to the … Continue reading
It’s rich here, the soil – constant as – run your fingers through it – it will not spoil But the men? Don’t get me started A pox on all the ardent-hearted prisoners of the bildungsroman Just – grow up … Continue reading