HOLD THE MILK:

A black van with tinted windows, a bill unpaid, a message to
a distant friend from between the daisies.

Listening to Mop Mop – ‘Lunar Love‘

(K)

I DREAMED LAST NIGHT:

Snakes wore the faces of people I trusted, speaking tongues with
strained & familiar voices, caught writhing, vulgar & radiant gold
in the crossplay of a searchlight sunset. Contorted features faked
euphoria, Purgatory, Hieronymus Bosch, Han Solo embedded in a block
of something violent. Sirens singing sailors onto the rocks.

Listening to  Positive Merge’s ‘Rh ( Annie Hall Remix )’

MOVING MOVING:

A day of trains & silences, of chance encounters with old friends
from the touchline tribe. The bitter smell of burned coffee,
pickle-&-cheese, pre-packed plastic sandwiches & paper-cupped tea,
bag floating face down, hanging by a thread, platform vendors to
cheer the day, buzzing fresh  from a secret sobriety celebrated
in the back room of a church hall to an applause like no other.

Reading Joseph Roth’s ‘The Legend of the Holy Drinker‘

(K)

A MAN A MAN A MAN:

A man listens with his ears, finds the light, relaxes.
A man stares down at his hand, a tiny police car races around
in his palm, flashing lights. It turns into a corridor, turns into
two cops walking along the corridor saying something serious that
turns into a popular tv series. A woman wipes a baby’s mouth.
A big man sweats heavily, wiping his brow with his bare hand,
dries it on his sleeve then cups his balls looking worried.
A young boy sits alone, eating chocolate humming to himself.
A waiter clears tables smiling, no one noticed.

(K)

WHO SHED?:

Who shed this small black feather stuck to the doorstep,
fluttering, sunlit, in gentle breezes?

Listening to Laniakea’s ‘A Pot of Powdered Nettles‘

(K)

TIN MUG:

Riding the steely twins into the Emerald City for the first time
in weeks. Feels strange to deliver myself willingly into the putrid
carcass of an electric snake. I’d forgotten how used to them I’ve
grown, like turning a tap on & I see them for what they are now,
not how they used to look when I was a kid.
Where I come from there were no electrics only diesels coughing &
wheezing between the fields, occasionally turning East up dirty
cuttings delivering rural shoppers into Birmingham’s decaying heart.
Electrics were exotic, from the South, London, where buildings
were clothed in a gossamer dust, the residue of premier division
sweat & toil that set it apart from the rest of us.
Back when I lived in the wilderness Electric trains frightened me.
It was their confidence, arrogance, a symbol of the separateness
of lives, not even class division, but an invisible line drawn
around the Capitol like an impregnable wall keeping the also-rans
out forever & reminding us of our place in the world. Electrics
represented bowler hats, pinstripes, brief cases, neatly trimmed
moustaches, cold expressions, offices, banks, calculation, seats of
power, captains of industry. Me, I was riding my bike in the
wilderness, lying in the long grass watching aeroplanes cross the
sky to American, knowing I would never be rich enough to travel like
that, never leave carpet town, never travel on an electric train.

(K)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY 04:30:

Head out the window, listen to the rain, Fragmented birdsong
before the sun. Everything smells green, alive, time holds it’s
breath.

(K)

THE DAY STARTED:

Then rolled. Stuff came in on the phone. Phone call after phone call.
I sat on a bench in the sun outside the church, listening to the
machine in my hand, talking in tongues. Wrote an article for
Tokyo Time Out, forgot to record a voice over for a radio station,
learned how to program a drum machine, battle with an ancient loyal
computer to let me in, was late to pick someone up from the station,
didn’t like the heat of the sun, left the car windows open in the
rain, won the battle with the computer, managed to actually record
something, cooked & ate with family, watched something on tv for ten
minutes then back in the studio till bed time, remembering to spend
time with family, important time, stop work make space time,
jigsaw puzzle time, story time, walk int the fields time, listening
time, sacred, precious, soon to be gone time, living in the moment
in danger of living in some other time time, pulling back, hugs,
smiles, quiet voices, laughter. Started watching Love & Mercy again.

(K)

THE COLOURS ARE DIFFERENT:

She walks with folded arms, homegrown hair, sculptural, solid.
Perfect picture, snow white, crisp & clean, eyes concealed
behind bug-eyed shades circa 1968, did nothing for me then either.

I heard you on the radio, still alive, like a satellite.
Cars removed their roofs, squeezed into tiny spaces, waved
to one-another observing Summer’s etiquette, following
languid curves. The backs of molten black-top snakes rippled.

Listening to Maja S. K. Ratkje

(K)

THE SATURDAY PEOPLE TIDAL WAVE OVERLOAD (#1 VISUAL NOISE):

Summer comes early, everybody happy. Men wear bad shorts &
last year’s T’s, washed too many times. Show their bellies,
sock-less shoes, tattoos, afterthoughts, feeling cool.
A certain type of man turns shirt collars up, never got it
irritates. What tribe is that? Men stride up the middle of
roads closed for market, Kings in the sun. The summer dresses
of seasons long gone, memories of beach exotica, times of
silenced phones, no bills to pay or queues or drudge.
Handbag smiles as coy as when they were girls.

Listening to Stian Westerhus

(K)