Friday 12th February

160212

PRE-BRISTOL GOLDENS:

Writing fast before the household descends from it’s chambers.
The sound of water rushing through pipes, sun whispering
through gossamer mist, fertile earth, busy beneath a crust of
frost, germinates gifts, hums to it’s self – can you hear it?
Anything the body may have caught forget, along with every thought
you have. There’s only a moment in time now, close, just up ahead.
It contains within it ‘all’ sound, ‘all’possibilities, humming to
it’s self with potential, beckoning, germinating gifts.

(K)

Tuesday 9th February

160209

SLEEP DEPRIVATION:

Rehearsals were 80%, given the voice was still in recovery, but
the laughs we had boosted my shabby delivery from closer to 60%.
You gotta laugh & have faith that the body will heal & the
kickdrum will deliver it’s miracle medication in times like these.
So around 9pm the batteries are drained, I check out & turn in.
I’m lying in the dark, drifting off, nursed in the gentle arms of
approaching sleep, when the phone rings,

“Hello Mr Hyde, are you ready for your phoners with Australia?”

(K)

Monday 8th February

160208

“I’M NOT ILL”:

The mantra repeats as the first show approaches. It’s only
broadcast live & televised – no pressure there then.
Picked up a bug shaking hands across Europe, five days straight
press-touring the new album sandpapering my throat with relentless
conversation, interrogated under bright lights for the whereabouts
of the microfilm.
The lady behind the counter at the chemist checks she heard me right,

“Cough medicine ‘without’ alcohol?”

Shoppers raise an eyebrow & take note of my face.
Like a fool I let my guard down, stopped using the manuka honey,
& the Throat Coat, let the candle get light both ends. Next time
I meet-n-greet I’ll discretely secrete antiseptic gel on the palms
or practise looking cool in rubber gloves.

(K)

Saturday 6th February

160206

BACK TO EARTH:

Back in Essex I’m shaking, making re-entry into civilian life is a
car crash of emotions. Drive, find a corner of a cafe & write.
The pen in meditation with the paper, finds discipline between the
lines, breathes deep & regular again. Been talking all day, every day
for five days straight. Running off the end of the runway into barbed
wire. Prompted, probed, pulled to pieces, dissected, directed,
laid bare, investigated & observed. Photographed when I’m trashed,
rabbit in the headlights, every last ounce of poetry extracted.
Sat on the plane last night vibrating, some foul mouthed twat givin’
it the large one in the row behind, regardless of company.
Geezer mouth, no etiquette, women & children in earshot,
big-shot-little-man, throw-back to the eighties. The inside of my skin
crawls, itches, the legs, the feet begin to dance beneath the seat.
The woman next to me sneezes, the theatrical steward hard-sells
scratch cards, repeating the same inane poetry.I begin to mutter
& rock, strapped in, 30,000 feet above the earth.

(K)