by Alun Williams
I grew up in the eighties, a product of ageing hippie parents who never let go of the Summer of Love. While I wanted an ordinary, modern upbringing, my parents, with the incredibly goofy names of Skye Blue and Ash would drag me off to festivals, full of their contemporaries and make me listen to music from people I couldn’t relate to, at least not then. For my seventh birthday, our next door neighbour bought me a replica machine gun which my dad would never let me leave the house without a flower in the barrel. It wasn’t the wisest thing he ever did, as most of the kids in the block thought I was crazy, but he was adamant that shooting people with bullets was wrong and that I should learn from an early age that love was the answer to everything. Love is not the answer to everything as I now know, especially as I have to pay excessive child maintenance for thirteen children from five different partners. I don’t expect them to have my personal values, but they can all sing along to all the songs from Woodstock, and you know, for that I’m eternally grateful.
Alun Williams loves Bukowski. His work has appeared in Write Side up, Bonfire, The Legendary, Darkest Before Dawn, Litsnack (awaiting publication), Cambrensis (now dead), Twisted Tongue, Secret Attic, Blue Tattoo, and PaleHouse.