Matthew Sweeney

He stood on the roof with a saxophone playing across the road. It was dark, no one could see him. Passing cars – though few at this hour – drowned him out, but he swooped back into hearing, sending high arcs of sound across to the block of flats on the other side. A woman stuck her head out a window, shouting. A man fired potato missiles, all missing. He played on, now...

For white he used toothpaste, for red, blood – but only his own that he hijacked just enough of each day.

For green he crushed basil in a little olive oil. His yellow was egg yolk, his black, coal dust dampened with water.

He tried several routes to blue before stopping at the intersection of bilberry juice and pounded bluebells.

His brown was his own, too, applied last thing in the day...

Everywhere it’s raining except here where the mosquitoes thrive and the car alarms wail at each other all through the dog-moaning night, and just before dawn that smell of onions frying brings the image of a fat ghost chef whose insomnia is dealt with like this, making me rush to the kitchen to catch him but he and the smell are always gone. And sleep has no chance at all then,...

Two cars arrived at the airport, both of them to collect Cecil. The two drivers stood on the concourse outside the exit from customs, each holding up Cecil’s name. His bag was last on the carousel, so when the glass door released him only these two were waiting. He went up to one, then the other. He left his bag on the ground. The two were trying to persuade him that they were...

Stay awhile. Don’t go just yet. The sirens are roaming the streets, the stabbing youths are out in packs, there’s mayhem in the tea leaves. You’re much better off staying here. I have a Bordeaux you’ll like, let’s open it. (I’ve a second bottle, too.) And a goat’s cheese to fast for, also a blue from the Vale of Cashel – and the source...