paddy is my uncle. he’s lying on his deathbed wearing his favourite pink nappy. the cancer will get me, he said, but he can’t kill me. but, paddy, i said, if he gets you then you’ll die. i thought you were a writer, son, he said. so what? i said. so think beyond the grave, …
Gray shallow waters stay with us on summer mornings when Lucky Pierre (an out-of-control puppet built around the fleshly fantasies of novelist Robert Coover) and others shag themselves shackle-free to escape their living conditions. It’s all a bit kinky these days. And at the same time more prudish than ever before. Bare breasts wherever you …
VOICE ONE: It’s time to dream my dears, now more than ever, when all dreams are drying up like dirt patches in the desert. Don’t succumb to the naysayers and the gibbering giblets – see how the children grow up against gravity, how the sun rises every day, and feast on the ebb and flow …