WHO’S THAT COMING?:

Dressed in Black,
Dressed in dangling Silver.
Headphones,
Half man,
Half Fly,
Bug-eye.

(K)

FORGOTTEN BRIEFCASE:

Screamer, waiting for the lock, the door to open early.
Cold wind down the back of the neck, standing in doorways.

INQUISITOR:

Bunch of keys swinging off a tiny back pack. Tiny black something
animal following behind, leaves it’s marker, a scented trail on
doorposts down the street of locks.

CLIMBS UP SCAFFOLDING:

Puffed up manly, glimpsed up alleys, brazen tool belt swinging.
Black & Blue.

(K)

THE 13TH:

Today, between here, there & somewhere yet to be discovered,
& in the absence of time to drift, I’m escaping to the spaces
in these new releases:

Hedvig Mollestad – ‘Black Stabat Mater‘

Erland Apneseth Trio – ‘Det Andre Rommet‘

Jessica Slighter – ‘A Sense Of Growth‘

(K)

COMBUSTIBLE MAN:

Walking through the park today I saw a bench with lumpy
scorch marks up the back rest. An anorak lay neatly folded
in the grass beside it. Today I met a brass cat who could
see into the future. Dogs don’t work forever.

(K)

CHEEKY BOY:

That’s a boy, that’s a natural thing, that’s a real boy!
His dad says,
“Yeah, ‘that’s’ my boy!”
Little monkey.

(K)

MUSIC & THE SAVAGE BREAST:

Silver trainers at the bottom of her midnight suit,
greeting skinny boys in black come grazing, fishing for
messages of love, brain-dead fingers. Runs hers through
her hair, thinks no one is looking, china doll eyes.
Asks for my number, automatic phrases from her mouth.
She’s a sleek black car, gliding between breakfast tables,
a soft-top shark, tiny hands.

(K)

THE MORNING AFTER MEMORY:

The Earl sees the mountains dusted by clouds revealed by the the sun.
Iron bones stride to summits, waste deep in plant life. Sugar hits
the tongue, hits the waste-line, protest defies death to be daubed on
bridges straddling valleys on skinny legs, the song of wheels above
their heads.

Black tea re-sets everything to zero, baby in the high-chair.
Hot-stuff in the morning, distraction. Green light go, red light
sneers from the tops of hills, cools the enthusiasm of approaching
wheels. A choir sings.

Here comes the light, street lamps bow there heads for the King.

(K)

ANIMALS, SILENT CALLS, MESSAGES, NOTHING:

A man paints his face blue, transforms into someone else before
entering the room in time to witness supple women arch their backs in
black. Blacker than the tea that refuses to infuse the water in
this cup, blacker than the mood of international jet setters deprived
of porridge & sleep. Nothing is hot enough.

Voices fall out of the sky, friends taunt friends, a friend walks off
into the night abandoning his friends. Every vehicle that arrives has
blacked-out windows, pulls up curb-side disgorging hang-doggers
dressed head-to-toe in washed-out black, heavy ruck-sacs slung across
shoulders. What’s so bad, so familiar that it evokes such disdain?
We could all be home on the social, laugh, where’s the celebration?

(K)

AIR-HOLE:

Another jump, another sky, another lungful of secondhand breath.
Like I said to the nice lady who brought me here,
“It beats working in the factory – I know from experience”
Life through the air-hole is a state of mind, lift you up or
grind you down. Are you trudging or surfing, laughing or sneering?
My job (what ‘job’ it is) entails spreading joy. If you hear me
complain you’ll know which hole this head is up.

(K)

ROOTS:

Proud some are Welsh.

(K)