I’ve always loved Jacques Brel’s La Chanson Des Vieux Amants. I was listening to it again the other day and…
…so a body was found here last April — foreign, arm-scarred and illegal, child become man become corpse become cadaver — and I return again and again: these are, let’s face it, fields which are hilly, these are…
Yesterday I told someone it felt like I had a choice: go to yet another bloody meeting or run away to join the circus.
So I chose: wore silly clothes, put on a mask, held a dozen balls in the air, told bad jokes, suspended myself above a baying crowd, played games with a frightened…
