LEAVING GLASTONBURY:

I stumble off the bus at 6:00am, feet wrapped in black bin liners.
A lone woman staggers up to me smiling,
“Where are you from?”
“Essex”
“welcome to Glastonbury!” she slurs surveying the mud & our tour bus
marooned in a ditch on yards away from back stage at West Holts,
where last night we had the most fabulous homecoming after seventeen
years away.

“It’s been a long time since we were here last” I grin, politely.

recalling the BBC broadcast was the best music tv I’ve ever seen,
watching it back at 1:00am on a tiny cell phone screen.
The staggering woman offers me a paper cup with a little yellow
liquid in the bottom,

“Whiskey?”

“That’s been even longer” I reply, sliding off to the mini bus
waiting in a puddle to disappear us to the airport.

(K)

GENTLEMEN, PLEASE LIFT THE SEAT BEFORE URINATING:

Brown water in the porcelain hole, hot water in the shower,
clean cubical with a lock on the door & hooks to deliver
possessions from the deluge. On Paradise morning all the men
have numbers & smiles, all the tyres are fat &
All Areas have Access.

(K)

GLASTONBURY:

Before the long road, before the arriving, before the soundcheck,
before the sleeping, before the exit in the night.

(K)

SEE THEM FLOAT:

Boys turn into men over Summer, touting for business down by the
river, sharp as bone handled knives.

SPOON:

The greeting. Words smuggled through torrential rain. Everyone
knows everyone’s name.

SUNLIGHT:

Spilled into tuesday morning. She comes offering everything.
No need to give anything, just the fact that she’s here is enough.

BUBBLES RUSH TO THE TOP:

Stagger in, red hair shaved up the sides, radiant in a leather
jacket, vintage, crude & black.

Listening to IF

(K)

NOTHING TO LOOSE:

A gold stud in the ear. Hands clasped around something hot & fast.
A rescue remedy for a quick start too early. Sunk eyes.

PROCESSION:

Oh the the boys in the their turned-up jeans, conceal affection,
touch fleetingly, radiant faces, gingham parade to a corner table,
smiling.

HEADS DOWN:

Fingers dance, skate across the faces of tiny machines purring in
the palms of hands. Vibrating symbiots, body-snatchers.

THE SILENCE WHEN YOU DIE:

But, in the meantime, lovers. No harm done this time.

Listening to The Necks

(K)

SUMMER HOLIDAY:

A black car slips away unseen up a street of yellow lines,
abandoning uncertainty long enough to leave. A boy stands
in the road contemplating something hot, wrapped in brown paper.
Awkward, obvious, the first beard of a man. Youth gathers to
kill time, smoking cigarettes curb-side, languishes in chairs
outside the kebab shop. Smells of fry-ups, fast coffees,
fragile cool, sneers, nothing.

(K)

PRAIRIE LULLABY:

Black car driver get ready
Sleek slipping silent
Knuckles white

Drifter get ready
Turn the sat-nav off
Shut your mouth

Cool-boy get ready
Don’t let the world see where you put your finger

Sharp-boy get ready
Headphones pumping
look behind you

Old-man-stagger get ready
Carrier bag clutcher
un-noticed

Plain-boy get ready
pretending to make a call
self conscious

(K)

ELECTRIC JOCKEYS RACE WOODEN HORSES:

Bus bunk dreams, shook rude. Awake, a stagger through HMS customs,
smile under abandoned hair & gratitude. Passports clutched with
stickerred names for the idiots of the morning. Sweet smells at
boarder crossing, the hole beneath the sea opens up & swallows us
whole. Spits us out on dry land, concrete, wires & chevrons.
Dumped with bags & sunken eyes on wheels, the shuffle to the rank,
the postcode & pin. Phone call home to let the folks back in the
Midlands know Her Majesty has let us all back in.

Now I’m lying in the arms of Mother Essex, showered, scrubbed &
porridged. Micro-waved from the middle out, heat behind the eyes.
Half words stumbling from a stupid mouth. Images with names swirl,
gas clouds escape synaptic connections that would otherwise know
their names. Thin ice thoughts skeletal formed should never be
spoken, regretting their escape in seconds. Linear thinking,
blinkered, runs on rails, looks neither left nor right. Don’t ask
too many questions of a man who wakes in a house of cards, the
consequence is yours, with love.  Slip a black tea under my nose
instead & watch the lips curve the corners.

(K)

JOYCE’S VOICE & BIRDSONG:

She greets me at the gates of Paradise. First into the morning
cubicle, I’m lavished with fresh black towels for a passion killer.
Undressed & exposed as the waters freeze. The sacred hook, rides
shotgun raises all my earthly possessions skywards & dry. When
everything else I need is provided, accompanied so unexpected by
such a smile, showering in cold water’s nothing.
The Angel Joyce ascends into heaven as I emerge, newborn & sweet
between the trees that set the scene for this weeks festivities.
A lake, whose sandy beaches arrived by lorry. Lorry trailers
parked in rows concealed, breathing diesel breath & rubber.
Smiling, happy knackered faces pause to shake my hand, dressed in
black & branded. Hands roughed hauling heavy metals, eternally
unseen, behind the scenes, un-named, unknown, without whom no party
happens tonight nor any other. Gratitude & dust for breakfast.

Listening to: Klaus Gesing // Björn Meyer // Samuel Rohre – ‘Amira‘

(K)

RETURN TO THE KINGDOM OF MICROWAVED PORRIDGE:

Scattershot thinking, all plans changed! Time shifts two hours
forward, everything meticulously planned is a problem. Ride the
steely twins West into streets, find a quiet place. Get physically
rearranged for cameras, blonde on blonde on blonde. Read a book,
a magazine, luxury! Let pens wander free across pages, sunning
themselves on the shores of black tea lagoons. Don’t forget to eat.
Don’t forget water, honey, throat coat. Don’t forget to sleep.
Don’t talk too much or think. Don’t forget to bring a towel for
the morning, up too early get one local. Bring everything you need
to shower when you wake up in a field. Be portable, self sufficient.
Think like a drifter. Never lie in, beat the rush, first pick of the
cubicles. Pray it’s a clean one, no little wiggly hairs, glutinous
shower gel stains or remnants of last night’s scrubbings. Flip-flops
for protection from scabs & sores & irritations, a bag to hang on a
hook (pray there’s a hook). Oh glorious hook, deliver us from the
puddles in which we dress! Back on the bus, kettle on, make
conversation long before it’s safe. Withdraw to distance, disarm the
head. Find a quiet place, a book, a pen, watch & listen. Meditation
underscored by the soundchecking of repetitive drum.

Listening to Anthony Joseph – ‘Caribbean Roots‘

(K)