IN THE STUDIO WITH RICK:

Some kind’ve bug thing infestation in the body.
Something caught shaking hands or..?
Scrambled head, but..
Throat, a rusty pipe that…
Whose bones are these?

(K)

A BRIDGE TO NODAL SWIVELLING:

I keep going ’cause it keeps getting better.

(K)

AFTER BLUE DOT:

Back home dazed stumbled out the bus into morning sunlight
clutching bags & hanging wardrobes & things on wheels whose
guttural grumbling grate upon the fragile ear of one so newly
born from it’s bunk. The weird dreams, the mouth dried in the
howl of A/C, the throat clogged with words unborn, the water
bottle jammed into a corner between the mattress & the wall,
brief nocturnal lubrications, first aid placations stave off
an inevitable damage that would render this voice useless,
a band without a mouth, a black hole with teeth, mute dancer,
go-go boy, podium wiggler, nothing.

Remember where you parked the car, the letter, the number.
Discover you can only exit or pay to get in then out again.
Let it go, laugh, remember twenty years ago.
Cool air, window down, elbow out. Drive between avenues of
green & green & green, Summer at it’s best, hallelujah light,
a boost, a lift, a free gift before the heat kicks in.

Today listening to Worriedaboutsatan – ‘Even Temper‘

(K)

BLUE DOT FESTIVAL:

The familiar smell of midnight mud recedes revealing sunlit
birdsong, tanning it’s self on the beach of a northern morning.
The dish still points to the heavens, the showers deliver hot or
cold (depending on which door you pick). Slept in a tilting bunk
with noisy A/C & a disconcerting whiff of carbon-monoxide – or was
it just a nose phantom? John Martyn as an mp3 floats me to sleep
eventually waking in that ‘should I/shouldn’t I moan’ headspace that
can only be cured by Porridge & smiles which were delivered without
asking by the local caterers sent from Heaven to lift elephants
off the morning mood. People shake my hand, stop & pass the time of
day, exchanging stories & goodvibes. Everything points towards the
light as the sound system fires up & the thrill of a night to come
filled with dancing happy faces feels real.

(K)

STICK IT:

The thing about writing is, it’s a solitary activity.
Not lonely, just singular. Every day since the weekend
I’ve shared that sacred morning space reserved for writing,
with someone else. Conversations, radio broadcasts, music, questions
craving answers, all of them distractions from the true purpose of
morning, that being ‘meditation’. I can’t sit, eyes closed,
emptying my mind. Soporific music just drives me crazy. The
sound of the wind & rain inspires me to poetry & a ticking clock
takes me back to a melancholy youth, that or a groove & I can’t
stand trying to switch off around a groove especially a
dripping tap. Like, right now, there are chimes in a tree, the
sound of a gentle breeze, a passenger jet flying high overhead
& occasional distant traffic, but all I can here is the polyrhythmic
groove of the bloody chimes in the tree!

I crave a cafe, any cafe, 07:30 – 08:30. A pot of steaming black
tea, a bowl of porridge, a note book, a pen, a cellphone with
internet connections so I can message my sister & then leave me alone.
A place to let the dog run free, uninterrupted, un-required.
One hour away without having to engage in conversation or give an
opinion or receive information or even just have to listen to
anything I might be expected to absorb & remember. This beautiful
hour is my sand pit, the place I can make deliberately rubbish marks,
unfettered by the demand to become anything more than
points on a journey between here & somewhere fantastic.

(K)

HOME:

Two days of sticky stinking heat. I’m a rain-dog, an island dweller,
mister mouldy. Need the feel of a cool breeze so I can breath,
moisture in the air so these these limbs aren’t swollen sluggish
with rancid heat.
Up London the streets around stations are smeared with the promise
of diseases. Touch nothing, shake no hand. If you drop it leave it,
walk away or disinfect it in a bucket over night.
Stayed in a hotel near Euston, room smelled of cheap perfume & body
odour, but the windows opened – luxury & noise. Breakfasted on
tv gloom-n-fear, porridge, tea, notebook, pen, a few minutes of
gentle respite & meditation before stepping into the furnace of
the sun. Train North to Manchester, air conditioned.
Walk the streets, alive, a camera, notebook, pen, mapping journeys,
looking for a place to build a temporary home next year.

(K)

THE MORNING PAPER:

Never put salt on it, has to be honey, always honey, Sweet stuff
for a bitter start. It’s your birthday, the unknown number remaining
makes me glad I still got you. Love & everything, our history.
Squeeze me, laughing. Glances disarmed. Remain with in the dotted
line, keep elbows within the carriage as we turn to face the morning
sun, dressed in glass & White.

(K)

GIVING IT AWAY TO THE MOUNTAIN:

Back from a leg of tour, showered, bags re-packed & already back
in another hotel. A night in the Capital for an early train north.
Prepping for two projects in development for next year.
Tomorrow promises poetry, I accept tonight’s generous offer of sleep.

(K)

FLUSH NO SOLIDS:

I believe I may have everything I need.

(K)

COLD SHOWER, 07:30:

A cold minty one, Clean & serene. Clean towels, clean cubical
& smiles from the chaperones deliver us fragile, sleep-addled,
rocked on roads beneath the sea & psychedelic dreams in our
coffins from Essex to Dour. A smile is like Christmas to a child
when you fall out of bed in yet another field with no clue
when you’ll ever see porridge again. Minty shower gel, minty
toothpaste, clean, clean, clean, remember your manors boy, how you
was brought up boy. Be nice unto others as you would be niced to.

Rick hits the stage at 08:00, Dirty Epic kickdrum familiar.
Hallelujah strings for an empty patch of grass fantasising
the arms of thousands raised.

08:30, I’m numb at the mic, Rick at the desk, hard plastic in-ears,
deep & cold in the holes each side my head. Forgot to stretch (damn!)
in the shower, remember NOT TO DANCE boy ’till you do! I EXHALE,
the throat groans, growls, grumbles awake, sluggish put willing.
TWO MONTHS OFF, the kickdrum, the chords, the surge of adrenaline.
Look to the sky, get lost, electric, the engine starts.

Then they come dancing in across the field, dressed in Green & Black.
The litter pickers, early rises, shit shovelers, cleaners, dusters,
scrubbers, the makers of everything beautiful. The ghosts, the ones
you never see, up before the festival opens, resetting everything to
zero so the party can begin again. They come flooding onto the field
DANCING, SPINNING, SMILING, HANDS IN THE AIR, abandoned in a joy that
transcends anything I ever wrote in these lyrics, Rick ever imagined
in this music. Tiredness & emotion get the better of me. I’m tearing up
at the sight of their unbridled joy. Watching children party in the
cosmic sandpit. I’m choking back sobs, unable to sing, they come right
up to the stage, vault the crash barrier & dance right up to the Subs,
faces raised up to us, laughing. Now every bit of dark is gone,
showered off, rinsed, wrung out & I say the cheesiest thing my
subconscious child can muster,

“I love my job”

Pass the Camembert…

(K)