BITCHIN’ ABOUT:

She’s a Queen bee, reads his emails.
She’s old-school, seems quite friendly.
Quite smiley.

We had an issue.
She disappeared off the grid.

Here’s Richard Dawson

(K)

WOW, YOU LOOK SO DIFFERENT!:

Wicked, like, whatever dude, no-way!

(K)

PUMPKIN:

Grow a pair! The contents of a bag spilled out. The Swinging of
the fringes on a hippy bag throw-back. Another net cast out to
catch a dream, a familiar face, waiting in the same doorway for
time to do it’s thing. Open, turn the lights on, start something
new, a laugh to roll around the world.

(K)

BOY HIDING IN A DUSTBIN:

Who’s that waiting at the cutters, smoke rising between the fingers,
checking messages, killing time? A cold start for a bunch of keys
swung, impatience waiting, distracted by a hand raised to a welcome
smile down the street. A glance from a freshly showered pony tail
passing. Rock-a-billy-Boy spread a little joy, untie this knot in the
stomach, this nauseous churn. Watching a razor shirt swagger to the
door of a Black four-by-four, silhouette against the tail lights.

(K)

DO YOU CALL THAT PORRIDGE?!:

Slow down raw caller, clouds escape from lips. A flick of ash,
a nonchalant stance, black-top, hot in the backs of articulated
truck slices the cool of East London.

(K)

ROBERT JOHNSON & ME:

You looked at me, rolling the thinnest cigarette from behind
thick tortoiseshell shades & 1950’s lips. A summer dress,
in Autumn, off-the-peg chic, Black & Cream, stared straight
at me. Red nails for thrills smiled as you rose to leave
clutching something bad for later. The pattern on your dress
burned into the back of the eye long after you left, but no
memory of a wrong turn at the cross-roads.

(K)

PERSONAL POSSESSIONS:

There’s a hole in the ground. I don’t know where it leads, oh, Alice!
Broken window, mattress on the roof.

(K)

DAILY PLANET.

One shot of extra strong kick-starts something tall. A story,
a texture, a slow driving hood in a tiny black car fishing for
cracks in the armour. All the suspects leave in threes, clutching
hope & heat in calloused hands like relay runners. Look both ways
before leaving the building. Remain discrete.
Lycra moms talk to their hands ignoring baby. Baby wants Mamma,
Mamma’s gone virtual/viral again, what planet are you on?

(K)

373 COMMERCIAL ROAD:

In the George (not the shrine in Soho), two Cokes (no ice), the
barmaid gives me a glance to check I know where I am.
A table in front of the stage, bag hooked over the knee
(a trick from back in the days of black-outs), a ball of tissue
in each each, grinning. The Friday night crowd are oiled & loose
(not messy), young & cool. An incongruous clutch of teachers laugh
around a text book in the corner, an old HEAD totters at the edge
of the stage, trying to mouth imaginary wisdoms as he hangs onto
the PA to remain upright. He holds a warm & precarious beer,
pin-hole eyes, freak flag tied back in a long white pony tail.

Nervous Conditions take the stage, the pub, the crowd, East London,
with a relentless, spontaneous, unapologetic wall of sound.
Miles said,
“Concentrate, but be completely free”, they do it naturally.
A thick set geezer breaks away from the laughing teachers, lunges
for the singer (misses), looks stupid (the singer returns a
benevolent smile & carries on). The geezer lashes out again
(pint glass held close to his shirted heart), the singer side-steps,
in his eyes the look of a loving parent watching out for a fevered
child. The band snaps into a low thundering groove without stopping
as the singer prowls the stage, a sheaf of lyric sheets screwed up
in a fist baton, cowboy shirt cool, throws out glancing grins to
the others they all return, a unit, tight & loyal, evolution on the
move. The audience crowd the stage, excited, feeling it, feeding of
the unrelenting electricity coming off the band. CAN, THE FALL,
CAPTAIN BEEFHEART, no, this is the 21st Century.

(K)

WHAT WOULD IT FEEL LIKE TO BE YOU?:

The sound of your voice, plated up slow, a golden blue bird diving.
Dummies in windows wearing Black & White & Grey, signify the end of
season. A Loner in the corner reads the paper, waits for a mate,
a Cappuccino Philosopher.

“Hello, do you need a receipt?”

Something Big & Pink looks in at the window, moves slow, hides fists.
Leave it, don’t go there!

Listening to Veronique Vincent & Aksak Maboul ’16 versions of Ex-Futur’

(K)