THE ELECTRIC FANTASY VEHICLES OF EUROPE:
Van Morrison, serenades another breakfast buffet,
black tea starved, heavy on the meat. We hum & nod along,
grazing tit-bits & fries, thin smiling, demarcating boundaries.
Late arriving couples with shower hair, floating, distant eyes,
radiant, calm, bubble-people. I’m drowning in the wind of
heavy soap, it’s time I walked the streets.
See the Ice Train,
the Grey Ghost slip – describe a line across the horizon.
Rhythms of the colours of exotic forms, fantasy vehicles,
efficient, electric, Kraftwerk, industry, Europe, Endless.
FLOATING WITH ANIMAL:
Following Mr Black-Black, ragged nail marks down his back,
Billboard woman smiles at me in Pink, too Pink, in passing.
She smiles at everyone she meets,too perky for these streets,
made me feel special for seconds, dumped me for the next one.
Now cabins float beneath us on a lake of dark, shapes
picked out in tiny lights, outsider sanctuary gardens,
withdrawn from the dance at the heart of the city of outsiders.
Salty rocket-gun & Violently Luminous Concord, push their faces
in through our windows as we glide, radio anaesthetised,
I float off the back seat with Animal.
Listening to: ‘In St Cuthbert’s Time‘
SOMETHING BAD WITHOUT A HOME:
The residue of something bad without a home, discharged fluids,
on an unloved back seat, constant use. The driver flicks through
stations, chasing an addicted to M.O.R. America, talks to his
cell phone in staccato grunts, hunched over a tiny thing, glowing
in the dark between delicate fingers like truck stop sausages.
Street light rhythms, dim, yellow, feverish, European.
Bull-necked apartment blocks, facades brutalised by Cy Twmbly,
posters ripped to fabulous by Clyfford Still. Riding in the back of
a Berlin taxi, late night in the rain with Dave & Iggy.
Listening to ‘Of Lovers, Gamblers and Parachute Skirts‘
DOWN TREE LINED BOULEVARDS TO SACCHARINE:
Woman on the radio says, “Messy-Head”, for a night drive
down tree-lined boulevards to saccharine M.O.R. –
another bleating piano song to dull the senses. Thrill my eyes on
Heavy Eastern Block architecture, squat with intent. In a barber’s
window a shrine, a footballing legend in Black & White as the radio
dribbles I try to float off the back seat of this Mercedes,
to keep the stink of it off my clothes – don’t intend to spend all
weekend smelling like a puke-blood-sweat-stain – the seat belt
smells of rancid butter.
Listing to ‘Baton’ from ‘Bonita‘
THIS LUCKY DRIVER:
The Cafe Rose is empty beneath vulgar illuminations.
Lights low, lost it’s soul, beneath the railway lines.
Dirty rip, waiting on the corner, two men teeter in
heavy winter black, smoke curling from their mouths, grinning,
lean into each other over a crate of beer.
“Welcome to Berlin! This Lucky driver is your Taxi to Hotel”
I heard you gasp as we hit the ground, wet with flashing lights.
Everybody turn your phones on, all you fingers & thumbs come
out to play.
It went, into: words in a cafe, music in a studio,
hands on the wheel, snow on the road, tea & sweet stuff.
Turned mail off on my phone inspired by an article in
the weekend Observer, see how much tech-noise I can
live without, keep it simple, free up space between
the ears, for:
words in a cafe, music in a studio, hands on the wheel,
snow on the road, tea & sweet stuff.