WHO’S COAT IS THIS JACKET, WHO’S HEAD IS THIS BALLOON?:
Who’s body is this I find myself in, run over & squeezed
out of a toothpaste tube, throat ransacked by another flight,
the coughers & sneezers shower germ cocktails into the air
with limitless generosity – breathe deeply oh dearly beloveds!
Hit the ground running, unpack, load the washing machine, peg
your photographables out in the wind to dry along with all those
little discrete things that make the day swing sweeter.
Into the studio on the back of another porridge, tea & poetry
ritual, car loaded with guitars & pedals, words & cables, don’t
forget your sense of humour, driving the back roads of Essex,
between the nodding heads of green corn & barley, softening
mother’s curves as she rises between Hawthorn, Oak & Elm.
Radio on, riding the backs of blacktop snakes, clearing the head
of all preconceptions, no direction, open for anything, ready for
action, the first tea & laugh with brother Richard, press play,
listen, plug in & record.