Matthew Sweeney

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,...

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...

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...

The vintner rowed his boat as close to the lake’s shore as he dared, and in the prow stood a five litre bottle of his Cabernet Franc Barrique. A big man, he powered on, past sunbathers, past sleepers, past fisherfolk, whose lines he took care to avoid. Behind him, a school of perch grew in numbers, as if all were reincarnated drinkers. The odd shout encouraged...

In spite of the snow, he powered his bike down the freezing road, avoiding the dogs that gambolled there, shitting and pissing, barking and growling. He cursed them all, their scarfed and gloved owners, too, also the cars that passed him by too close, the monster buses that wanted to crush him, the fat cold moon in the smoggy sky above.

His mouth recalled the taste of brandy-balls, sucked...