WITH LOVE:

I have three radios in my bathroom,
The frequency knob on one is broken,
So it remains tuned to the same AM station,
It’s a station I used to listen to all the time,
When I couldn’t bare to listen to the dark news on radio Four,
I like the delivery of the presenters,
They sound informed,
And because of this they could be playful with reality,
Inject a little irreverence,
When the news comes knocking,
I like the sound of AM broadcasts,
The harmonic overtones & random clicks,
Like they’re catching stray fragments in a giant radio net,
The AM feels more alive than FM or Digital,
If a tad too degraded for perfectionists ears,

The second radio is digital,
It stands in the middle of the other two,
Facing me,
Tuned to a music station,
Mostly,
I like the broadcaster in the morning,
His manner makes me laugh,
Catches me by surprise,
I like that,
It’s a kick-start,
A direction,
Just the sound of his voice,
The pattern of his words,
Sets me up,
Turns a light on,
Sometimes I text into the show,
Sometimes from the other side of the world,
To let him know somebody’s listening,
Sometimes he reads out my text,
We make a connection,
It makes me chuckle,
Alone in a hotel room,
A long way from home,

The third radio is tuned to the FM,
I move it between three stations,
All BBC,
Four,
Two,
And Three,
Four I can’t listen to before 10am,
It’s too loaded with dark news obsession,
Sometimes I put Two on as I shower,
The DJ has a relentless upbeat manner,
You can’t drag him down,
I like that,
It sets me up,
The tone of his voice,
The pattern of his words,
The fragments in the air around him,
Sometimes I turn off the music bits,
They grate on me,
But I like his energy,
The rhythm of his speaking,
I put him on in the car in the morning,
Because I don’t have a digital radio in my car,
And the other stations are too dark obsessed,
At that time of day,
So I drive,
Turning the radio off & on,
Just to listen to his voice,

Four,
I listen to at night,
Driving,
But also in my bathroom,
The stories,
The documentaries,
I like listening to them,
The sounds & the rhythms of other voices,
Passing on experiences,
Soul food,
And on Sunday morning,
I tune in & zone out,
Get lost,
Immersed in the pictures of the sounds,
Don’t ever phone me on Sunday morning,

Some evenings I tune in to Three,
There’s programs on there that turn me onto new stuff,
And classical sounds that rebuild me,
From the inside out,
Connect me to a music I couldn’t stand as a kid,
When I was too busy running,
To stand still long enough to hear,
Sometimes when I’m driving long distance,
I put Three on,
Imagine I’m driving through this fabulous landscape,
Underscore to the film on the windscreen in front of me,

Often,
I put more than one radio on at the same time,
Chuckling at the random noise,
In truth,
It’s beautiful,
Often,
I put all three radios on at the same time,
Sit on the floor with the lights off,
Lovin’ it

(Listening to Sue Tomkins)

(K)

TWO HOLES TALKING:

The gathering was,
As it always is,
Great,
Laughter,
Conversation,
Catch-ups,
Hugs & handshakes,
Stories of the past year’s adventures,
With all the bad bits removed,
As we circled the buffet,
Piling plates with fabulous home made wonders,

It’s been like this from the first day we met,
That day I turned up with a Red ribbon wrapped around a turnip,
As a gift for your mom,
She said,
“Oh! That’s lovely, How unusual”
And from that second I knew I loved her like she was my own

(K)

NIPPER & PIPPA ARE SMALL-TO-MEDIUM DOGS:

Oh you’ve changed it!
Well not much,
Yeah it’s better,
Let’s see

(K)

INFLATABLE HAPPY:

Two walks,
One before porridge,
One after…,
Well,
Silence,
Well,
Not entirely,
Some birdsong,
But surprisingly little,
As if every living thing had the day off,
Puddles we stepped in,
Stories we told,
Recounting legends of family members,
Past & present,
A hand held through tears,
Mud,
Hoof print,
Naked hawthorn,
The occasional berry,
The new crop already showing,
Low & Green above the rich wet earth

(K)

BEND IN A BROKEN HOLE:

We’re on a train,
It’s cold & dark,
And too late to be going into town,
But you have to make an effort,
Don’t you?

It’s warm on this train,
A modern one,
Not an old one that stinks,
Roll the dice,
Somebody must like us tonight,

You don’t have to talk to me,
You can be more interested in messages on your thing,
I love you,
I get it,

The next stop,
And the next stop,
The freshest haircut gets on,
The strongest man-scent,
Magazine model boy,
With the girl with the cartoon line around her lips,
Spends the journey talking in opposite directions,

Well here we are then,
Hanging around at a station again,
22:42,
Missing home,
And bed,
Waiting for a number,
Gangs of drunken howlers,
Mad loners effin’ & blindin’,
“It’s not the ones like that who scare me”,
You said,
“It’s the gangs of men shouting”,

Put your head on my shoulder,
Like when you were little,
Like we’re having fun,
You fall asleep,
Safe

(K)

BEACHED:

Remember the Physics teacher?
He had a temper,
But I liked him,
Looked forward to his classes,
Duel aspect,
Big classroom,
Gas piped to every table,

Remember his punishments?
Standing on chairs with arms outstretched,
Until tears rinsed the bravado out of belligerent boys,
The twist & lift of the side burn,
The surgical throw of the Blackboard rubber,
The Red his face would turn,
0-60,

Remember how,
When he’d set us work,
He’d retire to his office,
Door ajar to ensure obedience,
Whilst he fashioned custom grips for hand guns

(Listening to Terry Reid – ‘Seed Of Memory’)

(K)

HARD TOP:

Remember the Geography teacher?
The legend of how he hated first years?
Remember that last year of junior school?
A knot in the pit of the stomach,
The folklore,
The fear,
Months before we turned up at Big School,
Badged & blazered,
Blinking,
Tiny in the land of giants,
Provincial kids from council estates,
Farmers kids fresh from milking,
And me,

Remember that lesson about Geology?
We sat on the front row?
The kids from the fields & me,
The gang,

The Geography teacher talked about soft & hard rock,
Appeared from a store cupboard,
Granit in one hand,
Sandstone in the other,
Walked slow along the front row,
Eyeing us through gritted teach,
“Boy”, he said,
Stopping in front of me,
“Which one do you want to be hit with?”
Inside me I heard ‘click’,

I saw the wound,
The blood in my imagination,
‘I’m scared’,
I thought,
‘I know what I’m meant to say’
‘And there’s no way you’re hitting me with that!’

“Neither Sir”,
He raised the sandstone in a cartoon fist,
Weighed it,
Narrowed his eyes,
Chuckled,
Smiled,
Lowered it,
“That’s the only answer that could stop you getting hit”,

Now,
When I’m bullied into a corner,
When I’m offered option 1 or 2,
I go for 3,

I still see him smiling,
He was a great teacher

(Listening to: Erland Apneseth Trio – Ara)

(K)

BAG OF SHADOWS:

We’re leaving in twenty five,
Twenty two minutes,
Driving into one of those fantastic,
Mid-Wales,
Low-cloud days,
Infinite,
Luminous Grey,
The cut-out flats of hedgerows growing fainter
Like that schoolboy painting trick,
Implying distance,

Remember the first time we saw that,
In art classes when we were teens?
The teacher more interested in his prize winning model planes,
Than his students?

Remember arriving,
To find the inevitable knocked-off impression,
Of trees & hedgerows?
A vane attempt to kill our love of art,
As he settled down to ignore us,
Demanding we ‘copy that & keep quite’

(K)

TWO THINGS:

You left your medal hanging on the mirror,
Talking to your hand,
Jelly roller,
Duster,
Fingers running through your hair,

Catching wild birds in cupped hands,
As they beat themselves against windows,
Made you gasp like you’d never seen that done before,
Release them,
Singing a song that didn’t do the business when it first came out,
Went on to become a legend,

If you’re so disappointed in me why do you stick around?
Maybe,
It’s because you’re so frustrated,
You need someone to take it out on,
Distract you from yourself,
Oh well,
Keep laughing,
It’ll catch on,
Look,
Here comes a blank page!

(Listening to: Atom™ – ‘Ich bin meine maschine’)

(K)

WHITE SPATTERED BLACK IN AN ALLEY:

Now I’m flying over glaciers,
Snow covered mountains,
Blue Sky forever,

I’m hanging from a balloon,
Laughing,
Rising away from the thick of it,

Now I’m on a camel train crossing desert,
Leaving footprints to be blown away,
Tonight there’ll be no trace of us,

What’s the point of being famous?
Take my picture,
More precious than water,

Now I’m sat in an old car,
Green as the grass it’s abandoned in,
Tiny under stars,

Now I’m sat on the roof,
Shadow man,
Shadow boy,
Silenced by the size of a night sky,
Feeling the big ball roll,

Now I’m travelling solo,
Going “Look at that!”
Click!
Wishing you were here

(LISTENING TO: Nils Økland Band – Lysning)

(K)