Up from broke sleep, legs think they’re still at sea,
head in a cotton wool box adorned with dripping words.
Somebody’s pulled the blinds over Essex since I last
past this way. Somebody’s training it’s monkeys to
dress for the coming of winter. But as I sIt here at
the lap top tapping, porridge steaming & camomile to
remind me I still have a choice, I download a track
from Rick. There’s a chord floating in on an electric
breeze, a kickdrum crossing the horizon. A familiar
bass I’ve never heard before, like the baying of a
foghorn in the night. How does he know how to connect,
straight to the cortex? My throat is not at it’s best,
I’ve started to sniff. The body is telling me it wants
time off, but the feet can’t keep still & now my body’s
rocking, I see words forming, melodies & incantations.
I see a room, like I always see a room, when the music
talks to me. I know how that rooms feels, sounds & tastes.
I know how to move through that room, how to hunch &
swing. The hands are dancing across the keys, but they
want to describe low arcs in the air. Now I don’t care
that the body wants to sleep, that the throat wants
time off & the legs can’t walk straight – too late.
The kickdrum is the dealer, calls me into the wires.
Higher, higher, higher & I’m welling up, damn! This
ain’t cool, but I’m carried on the message, like
‘you bring light’ & ‘it’s ok’. But this one’s darker,
longer, deeper & much, much more Welsh.