1. Frank Ocean – Blonde 2. Car Seat Headrest – Teens of Denial 3. Trust Fund – We have always lived in The Harolds <a href=” have always lived in The Harolds by Trust Fund</a> 4...
We made it! One ink drawing by Laura Morgans, one piece of writing by Tom Spooner, every day in October – part five. Bangers The air was muggy with anticipation that Saturday afternoon. There were loud whispers about how these...
One ink drawing by Laura Morgans, one piece of writing by Tom Spooner, every day in October – part four. Bathtime You can imagine yourself anywhere in a bath. It doesn’t matter what is outside of the water, outside...
One ink drawing by Laura Morgans, one piece of writing by Tom Spooner, every day in October – part three. Stars For ten days, the stars had not been seen. It was not that it was cloudy nor that smog or light pollution...
One ink drawing by Laura Morgans, one piece of writing by Tom Spooner, every day in October. Goldfinger A bright buttercup yellow cassette rests on the green grass in front of an abandoned brick shelter in the corner of the Old...
One ink drawing by Laura Morgans, one piece of writing by Tom Spooner, every day in October. Crabbing It may have been the first time I had been crabbing, I couldn’t be sure. The line, weight, and bucket of water by my...
A man lived alone in a concrete tower block. He wanted to remain alone. The angles of the tower were aggressive and forcefully juxtaposed. The concrete had been hammered into predatory ridges. The man found it impossible...
The neon sign on the white-washed wall of the Centrespace gallery burns bright with the question: ‘What am I doing here?’ It is a good question. What am I doing here? It’s rare nowadays that I summon enough energy to leave...
It smells of buxom, boisterous women: bosoms tumbling from man-made fabric folds, galloping towards a finish line somewhere far beyond the dawn. Cigarettes and Cinzano; short chubby fingers climbing an inner thigh, a sharp song...
The thing is, I am in heaven right now. Well, I am not in heaven yet, but at the gates about to cross over. Looking in, I see records. Thousands upon thousands of records. In crates stacked on top of each other, six deep, ceiling...