LAUGHING WHEEL:

So I’m driving at night down the dual carriageway & I see this
truck up ahead with it’s right indicator going but not pulling over.
I’m closing in fast on it & start pulling out, but he doesn’t budge,
just keeps plodding away in the left lane with his indicator going.
As I come up alongside I see a people mover a few feet in front of
the truck going slow. The truck is right up behind it. You know
it’s carnage if the people mover rams on his breaks. The Truck
starts flashing it’s lights, still indicating right. The people
mover sticks to somewhere around 40, it’s left indicator flashing
but going nowhere. Then, just as I overtake the truck, the driver’s
window of the people mover winds down. A long, naked arm snakes
out, up over the roof & flicks the most beautiful, balletic ‘V’.

(K)

I’M NOT A TAXI:

The teen with the three stripe bag at the bus stop looks up impressed
by the song the throaty black machine with the fin sings pulling away
at the crossroads, as Shepherds note the red of the morning sky
before a sun yet to rise over bleary eyes hunched on chairs outside
coffee chains smoking into the morning news.
In the corner of the cafe a relentless mouth floods the room with
animosity directed at a set of ears across the table, bored into
silence, underscored by the cheery hits of classic Motown.
They’ve changed the recipe of the porridge I come for every day.
Now I’m confused, have to think before it’s safe to do so,
consider moving to the coffee chain down the road where the oats are
consistent but the windows look back into themselves, too shut off
from the world the receive the light this pen craves in the morning.

(K)

BEFORE THE SHOPS:

Caught the eye of a lusty pork pie watching me stumble under
the weight of excess thinking, across the market square before
opening.The phone at my ear twitters gibberish. I stubble,
drowning in words. Thoughts stutter & snap. Nothing makes
sense, no recognisable patterns. Nothing to grasp, no dimension,
no gravity. I loose balance, fall through the hole in the doughnut.
Wedged into a doorway, breathing. The pork pie watches
dispassionately, snuggled smug, beach body bronzed, between the
glistening torsos of it’s fellow catwalk pastries.

(K)

A QUICK GLANCE OVER THE SHOULDER:

Disco Johnny & the inferno brothers landed in the fields,
covered in flashing lights & mirror balls. Roasted magic,
languished in lakes of sweet oils & garlic pleasure boats.
Neighbours pulled the banging cardboard, donning paper hats
concealed within, caught the eyes of the gathered throng,
brethren everyone, raised a glass to the forgotten sailor,
remembering how far they’d come.

(K)

SOUNDCHECK IN THE PIPES:

At 2am last night the tiny drummer soundchecked his kick drum,
generating clouds of words like dust beat out of old rugs
hung on washing lines. They seethed & howled, half remembered
recollections, fears & hollow promises, tightened a rope around
my chest, pulling, whipping, spinning me like a top.
‘Thud…rest, Thud…rest, Thud…rest,Thud…rest, Thud’,
the kickdrum beat monotonous until 5am, when the central heating
timer kicked in, flushing the demon out the pipes, underscored
by the hiss hiss of pre-dawn rubber pushing lights along the road.

(K)

RHYTHM IN THE NIGHT:

There’s been a constant thumping in the pipes behind the bed
every night since Berlin. The plumber says its ‘valves’.
I think it’s a tiny drummer with a sick sense of humour, living
in the pipes. Him & his tiny drum kit are lodged in there, CCTV
hooked up over my bed to clock the exact moment I drift off to
sleep. Since I got back to Essex I’ve had to move up the other end
of the house – can’t sleep through a rhythm. Thought I’d
chance last night back in the home-bed – getting cocky.
He started up at 2am, random, then found his groove. Three beats
then silence, three beats then silence. Just enough space between
the ‘threes’ to watch me descend into the abyss grinning as he
clocked the shock of the first beat strike. I imagine him chuckling,
at 3am settling into a constant four-gap-four pattern. Should have
sent me & my pillow growling out the room in gloom. But I’d learned
how to sleep through the cacophony of Berlin buskers. The howlers
& strummers, the yellers, cacklers & bottle smashers. All of them
gathering after midnight in the underpass outside my window
specifically for my benefit.
That first night in the city left me ragged, but without the luxury
of anywhere else to sleep I’d learned how to block it out.
I dug in, sunk deeper into the duvet & sent my head out in search
of a silent space – it worked. Then the tiny drummer started to sing
a song, a simple refrain repeating over & over as he laid down his
monotonous groove.

“You can’t remember the words of the new songs,
You can’t remember the words of the new songs,
You can’t remember the words of the new songs,
You’re gonna be replaced”

(K)

POSSIBLE WITH PRACTISE:

Walking between naked trees in the half-light of morning’s
best offering. It’s not too bad, I’m getting used to the gloom.
It gets easier to extract light out of dark.
Learning to chew twigs for nourishment until spring.

(K)

THE SHOCK OF BEING RECOGNISED BEFORE I REMEMBER MY NAME:

Predawn drive to small town. A luxury of parking spaces waits
with open arms,leaf mould ankle deep high in gutters. I am the
millionth customer, the first across the finish line, won gold
rewarded in space & time.  Blacktop cracked beneath my trainers,
three stripes left, three right. Pavements dry as bones, parched
by a chill wind from the East, St Petersburg-whispers numb the tips
of ears & fingers.
Found a corner of a cafe where the phones don’t work. Whipped some
porridge on my synaptic connections, to let the world in. Let the
pen dance across the paper, figure skating between thin lines of
translucent blue, notebook specific. I’m surfing morning grooves
in reverie when a face invade, comes close, peers through the
expression I’m hiding behind. “Hello” it says, it knows my name,
noticing a subtle recoil I’m too slow to conceal.

(K)

WHO BUILT THIS FENCE?:

Sleeping in a silent room at the other end of the house – weird.
Like living in a hotel. Bits of me keep arriving from Berlin
at random intervals like lost luggage. Multi-tasking, when I desire
only prep for touring.
Rising in the dark again, yesterday’s trick on hold to play taxi
to the station. Laughing in the car, with you. Only interested in
solutions as problems fall away.The positivism of dancing
counteracts a dark side landslide. I was always too self-conscious
to dance in public, though it always looked sooo good. Wish I had it
in me but I don’t. Glad it never got passed on in my jeans.
Music & dancing must be a winner when you’re down. Like singing
carols at the top of your voice in the kitchen through these
long winter nights.
On stage is beautiful, the most peaceful place on Earth.
The kick drum is more than a dealer, it’s my minister, my healer.
Ego & all it’s dogs, run away when the kick drum drops.

Who built this fence? Who left this mark? Where are they now?

(K)

LEVITATION:

Good trick, re-set the alarm, late enough to escape the dark.
Wake up in an approximation of dawn, but later. Grey light infection,
something sick for the daily soul. Thinking about Spain, the Med,
anywhere, get me there fast. Let the light stream in through the
eyes. Later,levitation. Winter delivers it’s kinder sister,
dressed in bright, low, golden sunlight. We stand outside, facing
south, clutching mugs of hot & steaming. Smiling, purring.
On parole from another heavy dose of grey.

(K)