THE ANGEL:

The Angel was a brick layer by trade, he used to live in a 
men’s shelter in the south of the city, kept a hammer under 
his pillow & money in a sock. He was a good brick layer,
one’ve the best, but he liked a drink & no matter how much 
he earned it all went down the early house at the market. 

(K)

UP ALL NIGHT:

The Jack & Southern Comfort ran out at 2:00am, the two young men
had filled a whole reel of tape with songs that had become 
progressively introspective. The light was thin & flat as the sun 
began to rise, they both reluctantly agreed perhaps it really was
time to stop. Lying half clothed on a soft mattress in the spare
room sleep came fast & thick, but when the wake up call came three 
hours later his body was vibrating, a cheese wire was being slowly 
pulled through his head, a woman’s voice like a school day mother 
was singing his name, face peering round the door, already 
dressed & smiling. It should’ve been a pleasant start to the day,
she was pretty, but in his condition the wake up was grotesque, 
all he could see was the face of a pantomime dame. Without thinking 
he got up fast & regretted it, feeling instantly nauseous, unable to 
stomach even toothpaste he barely managing water & declined the milky 
tea cheerily waiting for him on the kitchen table. Instead he slipped 
on an overcoat & followed her out the door. 
At the bus stop did she notice him vibrating, holding onto anything 
that didn’t move? He rested his forehead against a concrete fence post, 
it’s cold & rough texture made him feel a little better, like an 
old friend.
On the back seat of the bus he focused on her voice, the only 
fixed point he could find this early in the morning, she sounded 
nice & ‘nice’ was what he needed. 
Half way into town he began to smile, 
“You’ve perked up” she giggled.
“Do you see anything odd about the inside of this bus?” he dribbled
“No, just a bus full of people going to work”
“Oh!” he chuckled to himself, watching thousands of fluorescent spiders 
running around all over everything & everyone but him & her, this was 
getting interesting.

(K) 

WEST BROMHICH: 

A night club, early 70’s, small stage, a few lights, 
acoustic tiles on a low ceiling. The man behind the bar
says, “You wont need all them boxes boys”. Clusters of 
table & chairs fill the room, a small dance floor close 
to the stage for tiny moves covered in the marks left 
behind by the passage of feet escaping the week, marking 
time. A door at the back of the stage leads to a tiny room, 
no windows, a few old chairs, a table, a mirror, a fluorescent 
light, a plug socket & a door with the sign FIRE EXIT.
We push it open, it’s not alarmed, craving fresh air 
& calm before the perfumed night oozes in off the street.
Theres a tiny strip of dirt, broken glass, discarded things
blown in by the wind & four feet away a wire fence
to stop us leaving, giving it the feel of a prison yard 
in miniature. 
We hang onto the fence, looking out across a carpark to a 
waste ground, push our fingers through the holes like 
they’re children we’re helping escape. You stare through the 
wire taking a drag on your cigarette,
“What a hole, who booked this?” you spit with familiar disdain 
through bitter lips, we turn & take the stage. 
The MAN is sat two rows back, flanked by respectful girls,
short dresses, pendulous earings & lashes, jacket draped around 
his shoulders, silver hair. 
“That’s him then?” you whisper, raising a concealed eyebrow
as we start, trying to act the part. One song in, the word comes 
back ‘the MAN says it’s too loud’. We dutifully notch it down, 
we’re on his turf, we lay it back, thin it out, radio 2 it. 
The Man nods in recognition, everyone relaxes, 
he controls the night again.

(K)

UNDER THE BRIDGE:

On Argyle Street Sydney, a cool spot beneath a stone bridge, 
the rocks ooze liquids, the camera twitches in the hand as traffic
hisses overhead. Fingers dance impatiently, fumbling with a
black & white camera app imbedded in a phone with a cracked face.
The app is stubborn, the fingers want it now, the eyes see things
they need to capture, the light wont wait. Two tourist follow close
behind photographing something out of sight, walking slow, pausing
every time you want to take a picture, making you feel self conscious,
your skin begins to itch. The man wears his hat backwards in his 40’s,
the woman smiles benignly, they walk as if in a trance, but always 
close enough to interfere with you taking photographs. You don’t 
know them, but you have the impulse to say something blunt. 
Just as you go to speak they pass & walk on ahead. You breath
a sigh of relief, but not loud enough for them to hear & as you
finish capturing the face within the rock you turn & find them 
standing exactly where you want to walk, making out their 
photographing something high above them, watching you from the 
corner of an eye & smiling. 

(K)

POINTS ON A MAP:

Playa-del-rey, a two room apartment set back from the road, 
short lease, no garden, tarmac out front, only terrestrial
channels on the TV. A four track tape recorder, a microphone,
a guitar, a drum machine, a bunch of effects pedals.
A bed, a sofa, a kitchenette.
The convenience store next door smells of cinnamon & stewed 
coffee, the owner says “hi!” every morning like he knows me.

(K)

LATE & LONG:

The day started early, yet the time for diaries slipped by 
like a super tanker shrouded in fog. The sky was on fire, 
dirty grey smudges of clouds drifting low, ripped open on 
the barbs of pylons releasing showers of sunlight, stroking 
fields with golden fingers. 
The purple heads of luminous grasses nodded their green 
approval as rush hour’s children hissed, racing fearless, 
down tributaries to the great Blacktop rivers heading out
to sea.
A pity then, there was no time to sit in silence listening
to winds whispering their names or standing quietly concealed
behind a hedge as rubber rolled focused & relentless between 
the lines at the edge of the world. I turned the key instead 
& let the engine moan & wine, the poetry of curves that guides 
the wheel the hands that take me through tunnels of May blossom 
& succulent greens. 
No radio this morning, but with the window down & the speed low,
I was dancing to rhythms at the Edge of Summer. 

(K)

BRANCH DANCING AT SUNSET:

I found you running at sunset, wires in your ears, smiling.
“It’s so great to be running again!” you shouted, music pumping 
as the light turned from gold to pink. I watched, sheltering in 
the warmth of a street light, “You don’t have to wait” you said,
but I was so happy to see you running I couldn’t look away.

(K)

MEMORIES OF DUDLEY MOORE:

Back at the hotel between shows I logged on & watched 
old films of Peter Cooke & Dudley Moore, Derek & Clive
remembering how we laughed the night you fell through
the floor into the coal hole carrying a 4×12 from the 
van. As you rolled around in agony on the floor of an
upstair flat we nursed you with brandy & sleepless 
laughter till the sun came up. 

(K)

ON THE POETRY OF LAST TRAINS:

Drunk boys ask violently who they are, swaggering in shirt 
sleeves for a place on the last train, fists like first class 
honours degrees, knuckles as white as the drunk woman, holding 
court on the train, brandishing profanities like an honorary 
membership to the gutter. 
“Inside I feel 19!” She shouts perhaps in compensation for how 
she feels about the outside. Hair in pigtails, clothes too tight, 
too loud, a story without a punch line. We pause on our journey 
home to witness grinning boys with arms of tattooed stars herd 
wide eyed girls into the dark, out towards their promised land.

(K)

RETURN OF YELLOW STUFF:

There’s a discernible taste to the air, breathing isn’t 
so much fun. The season of the Yellow Stuff returns &
with it the subtle beauty of Hawthorn blooms. Hedgerows
& verges explode with delicate shades of White, the last
blossom of the season, promising gentle summer walks 
at sunrise & long balmy evenings punctuated with the 
sound of laughter & alfresco dining. 
Yesterday I drove to a cafe, returning to the joy 
of notating loud conversation, parked up in the sun & 
sat quite with clear thoughts about the work to come. 
In late afternoon we rescued Blue tit chicks who’d flown
the nest too early, between sessions in the studio enjoying
the return to making music & watching the sun sink slow into 
the trees passing a calming hand over Essex.

(K)