N. P. Ryan

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Psychedelia

Ian Arkley: one; reflections on

15/03/2021 / N. P. Ryan / Leave a comment

Somewhere in an isolated corner of Wales there is an unassuming shed with a humble wooden door and simple brass knocker.

It’s unlikely anyone would ever stumble upon this rudimentary little shelter, but if they did the sort of welcome they could expect is indicated by the presence of a lock.

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Drinking in a dingy bar by the sea, crumpled postcard from Her and World’s Biggest Ray Zero for company; then the son of a starts saying I’m cursed. Praise Be to lighting-up another smoke. Inhale, taste a foul brand: the Hex She put on me. Promised Heaven, delivered a dive nightclub Hell. Thank the Lord for liquor loving hot chicks. Though nothing compares to how it’ll feel catching up with Her.

Wanted a quick bit of business and gone. Bath had other ideas. First, battered and left for dead after a hundred heart-breaking truths. Then a Police Chief with a saggy old treasure chest of secrets to keep needs a scapegoat. Dumps me in the middle of corruption so deep it eases through bone to suck greedy at marrow. With every gun pointing my way, Hell, not even He’s gonna get me outta this one.

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