MOUTH, THE DEMON KID:

Sometimes talking is easy. Sometimes I talk too much.
Sometimes talking is hard before I even open my mouth.
The head decides it doesn’t want to play, works out a
‘strategy’ all it’s own without consulting me, runs
ahead to lay traps, grows horns. I know this one well.
He likes to rebel, knows no restraint, creativity into
cruelty – no love. I got a trick for days like these.
A mantra I chant behind the wheel.
Turn the radio off, expose the demon child, open every
cupboard in the head-house, name every negative I find.
Call each by it’s name then call it’s opposite twin in
to take it’s place. By the time I touchdown, with a grinning,
face there’s a sunroof where the hair used to be.
He’s an old friend, the demon kid. Thinks he’s such a rebel,
but has nothing good to offer. Just a gripe a mile wide & a
churning gut. Roadblock to a soul song, black hole, bear trap
concealed beneath leaves.
Sometimes talking doesn’t want to come out to play,
but I got a trick.

(K)

SNOW-&-SNOW:

Just a dusting of icing sugar, mud cake fields transformed
into WI masterpieces for the afternoon tea-set. Freeze your
head in the wind blowing panpipe discords around the house.
Feel it bite your knuckles, sniffing for entry through the
backs of your knees – skinny jeans. Favourite table in a
back street cafe, high stool, porridge & tea. Black, no milk,
the opposite of my mood, watching the pen cut loose on the
paper, feeling good.

(K)

ESSEX DROP-OFF:

Woke on the Mary Celeste, tour bus silent as the gravy, 6:00am,
parked between dormant cross country cruisers. Dress, clean teeth,
clear bunk, coat on, hat on, leave. Half way to the taxi rank
I realise I forgot a hanging wardrobe full of clothes & don’t know
the key code to get back in – everybody’s still sleeping.
No sweat, I’ll call somebody, wake ’em up…ah, left my phone on my
bunk! No sweat, there’s a picture of the code in the photo library
on my lap top. Six tries later, I’ve forgotten the security code
to the lap top. It’s freezing, squatting on the black top between
the buses, a knackered prune, post fame & celebration. No Sweat,
switch off the head, let the fingers dance across the keys – bingo!
Sunday morning, five hours sleep, better not to think.

(K)

BRISTOL:

Weaving through labyrinths of boxes & wires, gig-turds clinging
to the soles of our trainers, swerving road grime carried in on
the feet of thousands. Clocking off before midnight. The first
soundcheck. Tommy Steel smiles knowingly upon us as we pass his
poster on the street, never ageing. Half a Sixpence glimmer,
eternally cheeky. Pulling wheelie bags unseen, we cut between
crowds of theatres disgorging faces glowing in the come-down
of after-shows. I hum ‘Little White Bull’ to the rhythm of our
tiny wheels rippling across the cracks of pavement stains.
Collars up against the chill of night, remembering not to breath
through the mouth, protecting the pipes for showtime.

(K)

PRE-BRISTOL GOLDENS:

Writing fast before the household descends from it’s chambers.
The sound of water rushing through pipes, sun whispering
through gossamer mist, fertile earth, busy beneath a crust of
frost, germinates gifts, hums to it’s self – can you hear it?
Anything the body may have caught forget, along with every thought
you have. There’s only a moment in time now, close, just up ahead.
It contains within it ‘all’ sound, ‘all’possibilities, humming to
it’s self with potential, beckoning, germinating gifts.

(K)

SUNNY ONE:

It was a good day. Rehearsals went well, there was some
great news & sausages were involved.

(K)

MOON IS A GRINNING EYELASH:

Today the phones of Essex got re-connected! Yesss!

(K)

SLEEP DEPRIVATION:

Rehearsals were 80%, given the voice was still in recovery, but
the laughs we had boosted my shabby delivery from closer to 60%.
You gotta laugh & have faith that the body will heal & the
kickdrum will deliver it’s miracle medication in times like these.
So around 9pm the batteries are drained, I check out & turn in.
I’m lying in the dark, drifting off, nursed in the gentle arms of
approaching sleep, when the phone rings,

“Hello Mr Hyde, are you ready for your phoners with Australia?”

(K)

“I’M NOT ILL”:

The mantra repeats as the first show approaches. It’s only
broadcast live & televised – no pressure there then.
Picked up a bug shaking hands across Europe, five days straight
press-touring the new album sandpapering my throat with relentless
conversation, interrogated under bright lights for the whereabouts
of the microfilm.
The lady behind the counter at the chemist checks she heard me right,

“Cough medicine ‘without’ alcohol?”

Shoppers raise an eyebrow & take note of my face.
Like a fool I let my guard down, stopped using the manuka honey,
& the Throat Coat, let the candle get light both ends. Next time
I meet-n-greet I’ll discretely secrete antiseptic gel on the palms
or practise looking cool in rubber gloves.

(K)

LETS DO ANOTHER JIGSAW PUZZLE:

Sunday was erased as our slice of Essex went down in a
telecoms black-out. Normal service will be resumed as soon
as the arse works out what the elbow has done.

(K)