WELCOME TO THE SKY-HOLE:

Swerved the stress of an early ride through the crush
of the roulette wheel on the M25, slipping sweetly round
the rim of London to cruise the mal of a satellite sky-hole
for pre-packed supermarket dinners smuggled back into the
sealed unit of a tired hotel room like scavengers. Feet up
on the bed, plastic forks & bottled waters, zoning out to a
giant flat-screen with the colour cranked high as a council
tv, breathing airconditioned wind through bunged-up sleep,
to wake more tired than when I closed my eyes. The nice lady
at reception offered me free wi-fi if I signed up for a hotel
card when I complained about the cost of logging-on, so I
reach out to you courtesy of another corporation soaking me up
into it’s system like a blotting paper stain. Looking forward
to gathering with the brotherhood of groove for the jump into
the sky again, praying for a gentle time for these bones tuned
for dancing long after their sell-by date expired, put my faith
in the kick-drum & my brother’s skill in giving it good orderly
direction, enough energy in that first hit to transform this
ragged body into something approaching human.

(K)