FOUR TO THE FLOOR:
Fat contrails converge above a demi-moon, dissipated on the wind
in a clear blue sky. Below, the earth is a caramel crust dusted
in frost, inviting me to crunch it. Three boys meet to remember,
following on from their last happy union in Madrid. Riots gave
way to artworks, Goya to back street coffees, breathing the breath
of the framing woman as drunk men taunted a simple boy, a robot
dancer craving company, trying to keep them laughing in desperation.
Three boys drop the kick drum on a sunny day in Essex, turing dark
into light.
Listening to “TBC” by Amatorski on Crammed Discs for a gentle
way in.
(K)
Karl Hyde 
…and I love to listen to Massive Attack with Yolanda Quartey