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A manikin the colour and texture of rust sits on the porch roof, head bowed. The concrete block house stands alone, in an island between three roads, overlooked by offices. The windows are covered by metal panels, as if the house is repossessed, rather than a memorial, a gravestone to the poet Thomas Chatterton.

Next time I see the house, the manikin has moved, now his eyeless and featureless face turned towards the main road. The traffic stands still, fuming,

The next day, he sits on a flaking green metal chair in the paved front garden, head in his hands. “Paint me an angel with wings, and a trumpet, to trumpet my name over the world,” he says. The stone house behind him is silent. The road is solid with city commuter cars and buses ticking over. The offices are lost in their dreams of profit, vacated by all but the most committed (this is Friday). And me? I’m no angel and I have my own story.

Photo: Interesting... The home of Thomas Chatterton, Bristol

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8 Comments

  1. Fabulous work. What do all those signs on the window say?

    • I’ll have to have a look when I’m there next!

      • I would put money on it saying – this building has been found unsafe by the cuthulu society!

      • Ah, unfortunately it’s just stickers from the property management company saying ‘keep off’!

      • Oh how dull!

  2. What you have created there is an absurd prose poem!!!

    • Maybe that would be a good new tag for it! Mind you it’s 90% true…


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