You’re home alone, curtains drawn,
waiting, wanting nothing & everything,
it’s all the same the fix.
Who’s coming ’round to play today?
The Telecaster with the new pickups chimed like a bell
in the hands of Steve Cropper, descended, angel like upon
the flocks of Essex. We laughed,clapped & made it dance,
do it’s trick, play faster, rougher, spit & spike.
THE RADIO TRANSMITS:
There’s a fish outside the off-stump, a herd of kangaroos transform
into deer outside the bedroom window, the first three stars
of the Big Bang burn with the light of a Hundred Million SUN’s,
the radio transmits the location of violent hotspots, there’s a drop
in the stats on drunken aggression & GBH has dwindled ’cause we’re
all indoors gaming. Everything is ok says the radio & getting better,
in the run up to a general election, feel my feet leave the ground,
I’m levitating on all this good news, no news in contradiction,
all wars are on pause, everybody’s back at work & building new homes,
rebuilding bridges between communities torn apart, everything that
was looted has been returned, all memories of horrors perpetrated
have been eradicated, the slate has been wiped cleaned & the
kettle’s on. There’s a fish outside the off-stumps, but I don’t know
what that means, Dali dances in the airwaves.
CAR, SUN, BIRD, STICK, WORM:
There’s a bird & a worm on the branch of a London Plane,
sun low to the horizon, people moving fast & stoney,
on a mission, collision with their rendezvous’, except you.
You’re parked in the wrong direction, watching something
in the distance, who’s that in the back seat? Who’s that
in the corner? Who’s that in the photograph, doing what
I used to do, blue suit, white dog, new shoes, haircut,
fresh & smiling? What are you up to now?
I used to be a satellite, orbiting your world, waiting
to be called down, spinning. Now there’s a bird on the branch
of a London Plane & you’re parked in another direction.
GIANT CRAB HOLDING CARTOON WORLD:
Porridge, Tea, early morning art, following a groove through
slow moving traffic jammed into a city, no place for anger or
it’s pal ‘frustration’, destination chill-out behind the wheel
until we turn 360 degrees & get out’ve here. Radio surfer,
window down, elbow, cool morning breeze before the heat begins.
Listening to something Californian, suits the sound of the surf
in my head, voices breaking through the white noise, fragments
of 25 years of sucking poetry off the streets.
No, I don’t know what it means either…
MAGNETIC POETRY IN SILENCE:
Mind bubble at the corner table, wi-fi’s free,
what’s the password? What you looking for?
Where’s the music gone? Why’s this room so empty
of big sound? I came here for a clue, now we’re
laying low, discrete, polite, breathing in time
with dust falling from beneath the room above,
tapping toes to the music of shuffles, chair drags,
shoe scuffs, doors opening & shut, lap-top keys arch
their backs like bony dogs, the tap dripping mimmic of,
the delicate kissing lips of, the girl curled against the boy,
wooing her with his tanks, impressing her with his in depth grasp of,
the finer details & mythologies of, driving tests, sunk into the fat
cracked leather of, an old brown sofa at the back of the room,
feet, inches from touching mine as I try not to sniff too loud,
I’m hiding, still carrying the remnants of a thing,
leaving it till the last possible second to retract the flow,
never glancing to let them know I can hear,
still trying to fold myself into myself,
scratch these notes slow,
so they wont know I’m here,
like dust falling from beneath the room above.
listening to ‘Who’ by Tony Buck’s band Transmit
Thick Black shadows cut into the painting space, it calls to me
across the yard to escape the white heat of morning, 8:30 am,
already too much, slows me down, slugs me up, melts my focus.
Thick black shadows cut the streets, call to camera, companion
vibrating in my hand, hungry eye, wants to dance.
There’s the start, the ‘best foot forward’, listening through
it’s one good eye, soft cruising streets, crossing to the
shadow side, walk slow, talk low, slip under the hot wire,
inhabit the molecules in the cool air under the bottom rung,
make the first marks down there, don’t look for purpose, reason
or end result, move slow, talk low & let the day make the drawing.