Author Archives: karlhyde

Wednesday 30th January

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RADIANT LIGHT:
 
Drive into the light, radio on, hedge rows straining to 
burst with new life. Breath of Spring, spring in a step, 
one step at a time. The night relinquishes it’s grip, stops
whispering in my ear, fear recoils from sunrise like Christopher
Lee. Rain, dances in ditches & everything smells green.
Leafmould & the promise of heady perfumed blooms. 
Pick up the guitar, step up to the mic & sing. The sounds 
you make sister & brothers make the spirit dance in beams of 
sunlight flooding through every window – even the wind 
breathes sweet today.
 
(K)

Tuesday 29th January

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LATE THAN NEVER:
 
The drunk staggered onto the petrol station forecourt,
I watched him from the corner of my eye, made it through 
the shop door first & held it open…no one appeared.
As I left I found him wavering, face up against the 
empty newspaper racks, fiddling with a wallet. He looked
respectable, Barbour, green wellies, the country type.
He didn’t move as I returned to the car, just balanced,
rocking in an invisible wind, oblivious to everything
but the tiny bits of paper in his hands. Behind the wheel,
I locked the car & watched, he lunged, re-igniting motion
in his legs, bursting into the shop as a fragile blonde
extracted money from a cash machine. Leaning over the 
counter he whispered to the assistant who reached back
high onto the shelves behind & slipped a quarter bottle
of Vodka to the drunk. 
 
(K)

Monday 28th January

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MEET YOU AT THE M11:
 
It started at a single yellow line on Essex Road as we 
walked towards the sea. You found me sitting on a bench 
with a tiny plaque remembering Christine 1959. A bower 
of Ivy, a symphony of traffic to celebrate our leaving. 
Meet me where the houses cover themselves in Artex & 
pebble dash each other’s walls. Where every man mechanics 
slip under front garden cars. 
You walk past in a leopard scarf & looks – a poodle
on a leash in boots. 
 
(K)

Sunday 27th January

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WALKING THE ESSEX SHORELINE:
 
Another day in a freezing wind, walking the rim of Essex.
Photographing details discarded in the mud along the banks 
of the River Roding. Dog walkers, joggers & underpass 
skate boarders cut the eye of lenses as cold creeps into bone 
through back doors. 
Thin trainers sodden, but the light sings bright, offering promises 
of Summer carried on the breath of Spring, the snow finally receding.
Banjo is a lost Dog, I found your posters pinned to posts & benches.
Look into his eyes & feel your love for him, hearts broken. 
As the light fades we dance beneath the beautiful sweeping curves of 
concrete, carries life high above communities. The M11 hisses,
rubber kisses black top into town. A poetry of brutal arteries 
strides on stilts, animals on hind legs prance like men 
around Charlie Brown roundabout – Redbridge at sundown. 
 
(K)   

Saturday 26th January

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CUT COLD:
 
I’m writing this on the fly, moving fast between 
late last night & early this morning. Bones
just thawed out from cruising with cameras along
the South West rim of Essex – sub-zero winds.
We met at 8:00am in a bunker festooned with razor
wire in the shadow of last years biggest gig on 
Earth. The poetry of back street alleys welcoming
us back like prodigal sons. River Road, Creek Mouth,
Dagenham Market, bright colours splashed with lorry slurry, 
hand painted signs,’hope’ grinning back in the face of 
triple-dip. The smell of the chemical earth, the debris
of life’s great belly button turned into pellets for 
burning in the furnaces of the world, places that’ve 
never heard of Dagenham. 
 
(K) 

Friday 25th January

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BLACKTOP CALLING:
Sticker on the number plate of the car in front says ‘HOWL’.
I don’t think of MOVING CASTLE, but the City Lights book shop,
Allen Ginsberg chanting rhythmic obscenities at the wheel of
a 21st century Ford. Texts stream in from around the world as
we pick our way through new material for live, so engrossed
in playing with these lovely people I forgot there was an
actual record or a world beyond the endless snow pinning Essex
down like a 70’s wrestler. I sleep the sleep of contentment,
claw back a little from months of sleepless nights. Today
with Perou, in alleys & brutal concrete underpasses we smell
sweet decay, back in my natural habitat with the eye of his
beautiful lens.
(K)

Thursday 24th January

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FARMER JOHN:
 
Pulls up in in his white pick-up, speaks my language,
says, “I’m sick of this snow”. I got tangle-weed thoughts
criss cross rhythms ‘not’ exploding with happiness.
Standing sleepless at the information cross roads, 
with some shadowy figure calling me over to the other side
offering to teach me the Blues. Think I’ll phone a friend,
listen to the healing tones of familiar voices, dig 
neighbours out’ve drifts & grit the road for traction.
Did I hear there was something released today, a culmination
of stories I haven’t been able to tell you. Sorry for 
the silence when we’ve known each other so long.
Listening to Robert Johnson & Tony McPhee.
 
(K)   

Wednesday 23rd January

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WHY CALL IT WINTER GARDEN?:
 
Received a photograph from a dairy subscriber,
a synchronous image, a sculpture of abandonment 
between the goal posts of naked trees – best tableaux 
since the deluge. Outsider art – love it.
Listening to Foals on radio 1, back where they should be.
Loved their sound since Antidotes. Suddenly we’re
not stranded in white stuff but in a Parisian Park, t-shirts
on the side of their stage soaking up that vibrant sound.
 
(K)

Tuesday 22nd January

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THE TRACKS OF ANIMALS:
 
Main roads appearing clear were treacherously frozen, 
cut-throughs lay in wait for even the prepared & 
pretty country lanes became killers. Is it life as 
normal in the city, thawed by the breath of millions 
whilst out here in the fields we regress to previous 
centuries, glimpsing future wonders on tiny screens
like campfires, hoping the sagging wires will hold 
till Spring? 
Oh city of science fiction, breath on us tonight 
that we might leave this cabin & it’s fever!
 
(K)

Monday 21st January

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PHONE CALLS, EMAILS & SNOW:
 
Just got out from under the last batch. Is there time 
to run into the studio & lock the door? Last night’s 
weather report changed today’s plans, a tidal wave of 
electric post-its to replace the sound of music. 
It’s not the Julie Andrews review, but the hills 
in my head are alive just the same. Veins run with tea, 
craving the company of friends who’s collective voice 
soothes the journey. One foot goes down & then
the other, waste deep in white stuff today.
 
(K)