PULLING:

Weeds & wheelie bins.
Sun after rain smells good, green, warm like a mother’s jumper.

Listening to Zamilska – UNDONE

(K)

SAND DOG:

Stash, the money, the fears are in the back-pack. Scratch,
here comes the drifter, more beautiful than I remember.
Here comes Baby smoking, white stick cool, never gave up.

(K)

HOLLY BREAKFAST:

Pure honey never finds it’s self. The corner table cleaned,
linen white, silent stainless knives innocent as petals.
Sunflower head, mouth wide amazed. The sight of a chandelier sun
hanging dull apologies in the polite silence of empty rooms.
Will you walk with me in the rain, get wet together? A secret
activity, a violent pink dress, a poet, a key, a rose with a
leather fob.

Reading Lorca:
‘Cry To Rome (From the Tower of the Chrysler Building)’

(K)

ANXIOUS TEN QUID CLUTCH:

Carry the precious, carry the news, a dirty secret, a boomerang
thrown with no invitation to return. A thought is a dangerous thing,
a monkey with a hand-grenade, a black dog waiting curb-side,
head down, slow-walking a prayer.

(K)

STORY OF A DOG:

Grinning girl (running) greets a man (leaving).
Lost his kids, moved away, meal for one. A man kneels alone
on bare earth, on concrete, on tarmac (facing a wall).
A man with a bag of tricks hides in an alley, preparing for the
flood. A man climbs into the sky, disappears into holes wreathed
in silicon. A man stands back, looks up, admires his handiwork,
unaware he’s being watched (perfection, divine).

Listening to Bombino – ‘Inar‘

(K)

THE ADVANTAGE OF PORRIDGE WITH A VIEW:

It’s hot & fast & crowded, full of speed & sharp pressed
determination. A solitary drummer holds a groove, foot-fall-feet
& silent faces.

(K)

STICKY THE STICK MAN:

I am large, perfect porridge. I am certified white oak, organic.
I am natural, material, 100% re-cycled. I am new summer, pick me up
here. I am discovered, sublime, utterly, too short a life.
I am refurbished, searching for the fragrance, claustrophobic.
I am nothing more, nothing less than. I am migrant, moving,
seasonal, hand made, fresh. I hear you.

(K)

HEAT:

Don’t loose your cool (if you ever had it)
Don’t get dark about it
One eye on the time
A habit
A nervous tick
Too hot
Too sweet
Say your name
Again
Again
Never saying what you’re really thinking

(K)

SKELETON MAN WALKS SLOW:

A heavy bag slung across his back, a heavy face on the front of
his head. Lines of people wait for doors to open, feeding frenzy
at the station. Patriotic chocolate slipped beneath the glass
by the smiling woman who sits behind it every morning sweetens
my journey into sweatbox city.

(K)

AFTER THE FORBIDDEN FRUIT HAS BEEN EATEN:

A glitter-faced passenger woman waits at the gates in a black-faced
Audi to be let out into the night from a night getting wild in the
park. She, nor the leavers on bikes, nor security riding shotgun
leant on fences taking instructions from walkie-talkies, see me
changing out of wet & salty clothes in the dark with the lights off
in the little room at the front of the bus, behind mirrored windows.
After the lights have been dimmed, after the sound has been turned
off, the instruments packed away & lorries loaded I sit, wrapped
in towels, hunched over a cold meal of lasagna & veg, a plastic fork
& knife, a mug of tea, some chocolate (but not too much), something
sweet to take the edge off the sustenance withheld from a body
unable to retain it & sing & dance.

The security guard gets the call, the gates are opened, the car
is waved through, the glitter-faced passenger woman’s stare follows
the direction of the headlights of her black-faced Audi as the man
behind the wheel leans an elbow out the window smoking a cigarette
saying nothing. Their eyes never meet, their face never turn to one
another.  I towel dry & slip on something clean, go downstairs
to the kitchen & make another tea, read the papers & greet the smiles
of friends who did magic again tonight, unseen behind the scenes.

(K)