The hot sting of morning, red wire to a broken heart voice.
I’m tired, yeah, pay no attention. Star in black water,
drowning in fast messages. I’m down to 84% & falling.
DISTANCE, WHAT YOU GOT?:
Experience, what’s it done? Messages in your fingers flinch.
Drink up, you got the call! Get up, it’s time! Zip it up,
make everything great! Tiny eyes, big face, come see the sun!
You stole another’s place, the hot seat in the corner as I watched.
You didn’t even know, just slipped in as if nothing.
Riding a late one out’ve south London, baked by sun & soaked
by rain, colder indoors than out. This is England, why I live
here, the weather drives us, comforts us, gives us conversation
& focus to make, & write & create because it keeps changing.
My dialogue with the weather has been a constant
throughout my life, the seasons & ‘what should I wear’s’ have
kept me in a state of continual flux that works for me. One day
in the sun is enough, slows me down, de-incentivises me, I loose
direction as the heat swells my fingers & brain, it’s like being
drunk again. Early morning rain washing the streets clean, of
dirt & people, enough to imagine I’m at one our our less glamorous
British sea-side resorts in Winter, they’re my favourite hang-out
places for inspiring a particular ‘alone-ness’ that lifts me.
Hood up, walking the streets in the rain, amber glow of cafes
calling, steam from coffee machines, hissing, radio on in the back,
condensation running down windows, figures hunched over formica
tables, fingering strong tea in thick cups, white toast, beans,
plastic tomatoes disgorging ketchup since the 60’s.
LOVE & THE MACHINE:
Having a Mac-attack this morning, really don’t like the
latest version of iTunes, it doesn’t do what I want when
I need it to like it used to. I’m giving over too much of
my life to Mac, too many upgrades that change the way I
work & think, removes the intuitive nature of what used to
be a useful tool, now increasingly an encumbrance too often
things I like about it disappear with each new ‘upgrade’,
I’m anxious every time I ‘upgrade software’ on the phone,
the legends of loosing content are rife, it should be easy,
it used to be fun, today it seems like a burden. My your
Mac give you love.
SWOON, THE MONEY:
List, the maddening wait – regulate.
Brilliant colours, the lion, the bird.
Gift steals a look, a gander.
Silver studs beneath the bridge, oh Lord!
Instant dog, fix your face in a camera phone, check it out,
Salty streets, rainbow woman & clothing, & the closing of doors –
this one’s yours I’m getting off!
Space, gimme some! Are we done slow stepping?
Twisted wheel, mad as a subway, that’s a pink one! Lock it to the
Designer porn, favour fortune, head, hands, a mouth on fire.
See my boat, Im butter on the knife, bitter frustration.
No, not at you, at me.
These hands can’t cut it! The luminous rabbit leaps in the dark,
craving fantastic – look at me…nothing.
AWAY DAY IN GREY:
Grey suit, neck exposed, ringed in white, distant eyes, watching,
gone. Looks around, hunched, catching sunlight in a paper cup,
bitter black stuff, white cuff, crisp around the wrists, picking
fingers, bite the lip, taps a foot with a broken groove,
killing time before it comes calling.
SONG OF A STREET SCULPTURE MOUTH:
This is what we sound like when nothing is holding us back,
looking, looking, looking for a double shot of ‘good’.
You squeak & squawk, but it’s not singing. Close that mouth,
too early in the morning! Blue, blue, blue, flicking, flicking,
flicking, silent lookdown, dressed in black.
Get out’ve here!