CRACK THE LIGHT:
Light breaks out from cracks between buildings. Red brick streaked with fifties shoot stains, white concrete balcony washing lines. Students lean across tables, to the hiss of Italianesque coffee boilers, exchange excitement, talking French with fat double basses, bagged & struggled through doors in skinny jeans. All the girls are ripped above the knees, curling finger hair, catching their reflections in the black glass eyes of cocktail bars, softening the blow with a promise of ‘art’ where Dali fingers his moustache – flogging anything for money.
A Kestrel dives into a field ditch, pauses, hangs in the air,
adjusting. Underbelly white as the undersides of model
aeroplanes I locked myself away with as a boy, escaping to
meditate in the effluvium of glue & paint. Kestrel suspended
on the wind, tiny sky dart, focused on fractional oscillations,
a flash of yellow where white turns grey as a sea planes wings,
catapulted from the rolling decks of floating cities
We drive, unable to speak, smiling, eyes radiant, wide,
windows down, hairdos abandoned to the wind. It rattles
around us, thrills us, conjuring autumn receipts from
side pockets, shuttles parking tickets along the dashboard,
fluttering, scuttling, stuttering against the windscreen
in black, white, black, white rhythms. Kestrel hesitates,
disturbed by our passing, pulls away, indignation in it’s
thread-needle eye, gives submits to the wind to rise with
delicate skill, trimming it’s wings to arc across vast acres
of parallel lines. Winter seedlings reach up to touch it’s
flight with sweet green tips, rippling in rhythms, bending in
waves at the passing of such fabulous Autumn winds.
“Morning throat, what bring’s you here? Why so up tight?”
“Think of it as a warning?”
“Like a contract?”
“No, like a ‘warning’ “
“What’ve I done?”
“Are you joking?”
“Have I done something to upset you?”
“Ok, you’re pushing now – be careful!”
“What’ve I done?”
“What’ve you not done?”
“We’re getting somewhere now”
“Genius! – more…”
“Looked after you?”
“Like I said, I’m here in the capacity of your ‘early warning’ “
“You’re right, I forgot, thanks”
“It’s my job.”
“Yeah, I know, I feel stupid now”
“Well, you’ve been too busy to listen & you know what happens”
“Have a laugh?”
“OK,…sonny, run along”
Watching Taxi Driver, that monologue playing in my head,
underscored by moaning horns. It was back in the Dubnodays,
my cruising tune for streets, with pin-hole eyes
watching worlds collapse out of light into the night.
“All the Animals come out at Night…”
The trees fizz in the morning, turn to face the
sunrise reds of a shepherd’s opalescent sky.
All the leaves are singing to the light as the
smell of rich wet earth rolls up from beneath us.
Autumn fingers grip the wheel, we drive between
the fields, windows down, laughing to full effect.
WALKING WITH A 3D HEAD:
Fog in the distance conceals someone over there looking over here,
thinking I’m their fog in the distance. Walk the early dirt track,
soak up the sounds of a morning gifted to boys on journeys.
Birds on wires, the black winged marks of a music in my head.
The rhythm of the crunch underfoot, the muted whisper of grasses
heavy with dew. Slip your hands out of your pockets, feel the
thrill of a cold sting, knuckles pink, cheeks blushed, taught as
bongo skins, eyes clear, everything in 3D.
CROSSING A LINE BETWEEN DANG & DO:
Walked all day between tube holes & rendezvous’, faces
bowed beneath relentless rhythm – hissing & black,
doorways crammed with smoking lips. Winter’s outrider
reclaims domain, the rain lays it’s marker down.
I was wet beneath the knees all day, slipping into
diner booths for sips on dirty lip stick cups. Hauling
fat bag & heavy machine, things I didn’t need, to comfort me.
Free wi-fi zones that never let me in, my bag’s full of
dead metal, my shoulder knot. I intended to cruise galleries
in the clear space aftermath of Saturday night’s RFH, but got
drawn back to gutter art & ready-mades. Bought RAW VISION,
bought too many papers, read too many reviews, I got suckered
by the news. Drifted into record shops, hooked on sound, now
I’m sat out in the fields listening to The Heads ‘Motorjam‘
up loud. It suits my mood, exactly how I feel. I’ve been
hearing this music in my head for months, unable to express it,
triggered by Melt-Banana when I wrote for the next edition of
EDDICT. Something about Trance-noise, a sonic landscape in my
head. It’s relentless beauty is a journey, embarrassed that it
took me this long to find it in The Heads -
‘Everybody Knows We Got Nowhere’.
Feels like I’m still scratching the surface.