With the unsaid said, the family skeletons sit smouldering, shadows fused to the sofa. The echoes of afterthoughts stain the air, taste of petrol. * (then) the smoky sting of the whisky brings back that winter I bought my first bottle of Jack Daniel’s Mum thought I was turning into an alcoholic. Everything had already fallen apart. Dad was on Prozac, Mark was stitched and … Continue reading Molotov by David Barnes