THE RADIO TRANSMITS:

There’s a fish outside the off-stump, a herd of kangaroos transform
into deer outside the bedroom window, the first three stars
of the Big Bang burn with the light of a Hundred Million SUN’s,
the radio transmits the location of violent hotspots, there’s a drop
in the stats on drunken aggression & GBH has dwindled ’cause we’re
all indoors gaming. Everything is ok says the radio & getting better,
in the run up to a general election, feel my feet leave the ground,
I’m levitating on all this good news, no news in contradiction,
all wars are on pause, everybody’s back at work & building new homes,
rebuilding bridges between communities torn apart, everything that
was looted has been returned, all memories of horrors perpetrated
have been eradicated, the slate has been wiped cleaned & the
kettle’s on. There’s a fish outside the off-stumps, but I don’t know
what that means, Dali dances in the airwaves.

(K)

CAR, SUN, BIRD, STICK, WORM:

There’s a bird & a worm on the branch of a London Plane,
sun low to the horizon, people moving fast & stoney,
on a mission, collision with their rendezvous’, except you.
You’re parked in the wrong direction, watching something
in the distance, who’s that in the back seat? Who’s that
in the corner? Who’s that in the photograph, doing what
I used to do, blue suit, white dog, new shoes, haircut,
fresh & smiling? What are you up to now?
I used to be a satellite, orbiting your world, waiting
to be called down, spinning. Now there’s a bird on the branch
of a London Plane & you’re parked in another direction.

(K)

GIANT CRAB HOLDING CARTOON WORLD:

Porridge, Tea, early morning art, following a groove through
slow moving traffic jammed into a city, no place for anger or
it’s pal ‘frustration’, destination chill-out behind the wheel
until we turn 360 degrees & get out’ve here. Radio surfer,
window down, elbow, cool morning breeze before the heat begins.
Listening to something Californian, suits the sound of the surf
in my head, voices breaking through the white noise, fragments
of 25 years of sucking poetry off the streets.
No, I don’t know what it means either…

(K)

MAGNETIC POETRY IN SILENCE:

Mind bubble at the corner table, wi-fi’s free,
what’s the password? What you looking for?
Where’s the music gone? Why’s this room so empty
of big sound? I came here for a clue, now we’re
laying low, discrete, polite, breathing in time
with dust falling from beneath the room above,
tapping toes to the music of shuffles, chair drags,
shoe scuffs, doors opening & shut, lap-top keys arch
their backs like bony dogs, the tap dripping mimmic of,
the delicate kissing lips of, the girl curled against the boy,
wooing her with his tanks, impressing her with his in depth grasp of,
the finer details & mythologies of, driving tests, sunk into the fat
cracked leather of, an old brown sofa at the back of the room,
feet, inches from touching mine as I try not to sniff too loud,
I’m hiding, still carrying the remnants of a thing,
leaving it till the last possible second to retract the flow,
never glancing to let them know I can hear,
too near
& yet
still trying to fold myself into myself,
scratch these notes slow,
so they wont know I’m here,
disappeared,
like dust falling from beneath the room above.

listening to ‘Who’ by Tony Buck’s band Transmit

(K)

SLUG MAN:

Thick Black shadows cut into the painting space, it calls to me
across the yard to escape the white heat of morning, 8:30 am,
already too much, slows me down, slugs me up, melts my focus.
Thick black shadows cut the streets, call to camera, companion
vibrating in my hand, hungry eye, wants to dance.
There’s the start, the ‘best foot forward’, listening through
it’s one good eye, soft cruising streets, crossing to the
shadow side, walk slow, talk low, slip under the hot wire,
inhabit the molecules in the cool air under the bottom rung,
make the first marks down there, don’t look for purpose, reason
or end result, move slow, talk low & let the day make the drawing.

(K)

TORRENT MACHINE:

Mamma Cass sings
‘Sweet Dreams’ in a budget hotel, back streets of 3rd generation designer smilers rough brick style, 21st century rave generation, gleaming clean as new pins, bedded in amongst the born-n-breads, the council flat developers, young high-flyers & the homeless wrapped in cardboard.
“Good morning, how was your room?” Loops a voice directing residents to tables, “it’s an all-you-can-eat buffet”. Images of last night’s streets sleep in my camera, split black bags spilled across pavements, little streams of anonymous liquids dribbling from the mouths of alleys, crazy fuzz slide kid guitarist chanting into a cheap mic, cheap amp like the ghost of young Bobby Gillespie whose disciples squat around him bottle drunk in the fever glow of yellow street lights beneath the steely twins, a lone girl dancing with her blissed-out drug on the edge of the curb lost in perpetual grin. I suck it all in, love it, taste it in my dreams, underscored by The Necks playing like an impossible torrent machine.

(K)

COMBING:

Train, early, porridge, station, rhythmic notice voices, footfall, tea & tea & tea. Art, tea, writing in corners, paper, pen, cell phone notepad, walking, walking, walking, following an invisible red line, transmitting blue circles on a tiny electric map & tea & water at the Village Underground to see the Necks with Perou.

(K)

TOO HOT HEAT:

Woodpeckers punch holes in telegraph poles causing them to
burst into flames in the heat of an Essex Summer visited
upon these fields too early, so that is swells my fingers
& turns my thoughts to sludge, head aching, thinking cool
thoughts so as not to over-heat, nailing big sheets of
cardboard to the walls of the painting studio ready for
the marks I’ve been sucking up on tour. The night hums
with hot tin heat, black cats pull back as I walk, a
lone wolf skulks in the hawthorn, retreating from the idiot
pheasant as it doodles circles in the road blissfully unaware
of the teeth running away from the sound of footfall.

(K)

CUBICAL:

Middle aged middle wide geezer waddling up the train,
sunglass perched on his number 2 bone, southeast accent,
flyin’ the flag for all the boys back home, film too loud
on his electric gizmo, tablet, lap top, i-curse thing, tiny gunshots
that make him chuckle to the knuckle, can’t be bothered to listen
on in-ears or phones, the sons of England’s seed.

The cubicles in the men’s room at Brussels station are pastel green,
smell clean. Entrance blocked by a tall blonde heavy mountain man,
older than his years, starting to stoop from an excess of life,
two fists for carrier bags at the end of each arm, full of clothes,
tangled pastel wash-outs, argues with the cleaner, smaller but leaner,
sharper, younger, head shaved, fresh, accommodating, generous at first
as the mountain rains on him, rants, points the last remaining finger
from his fist of bullets, raised but still clutching it’s bag of rags,
eye-to-eye, cleaner twisting broom, his animal gets louder.
I wait, eager to explore the fasciitis, coin in hand, stand close to
make it obvious, caught by the corner of the cleaner’s eye who steps
back, but the mountain advances, blocks my path, laugh, I’ve had it,
too tired, too held in for too long, too cautious, snap, step into
the path of the moving mountain, dropping,
“Pardon me” in French, forgetting it’s an offence round here,
as I slip the coin in the slot trying not to let my fingers contact
anything communal.

The cubicles at Brussels station, are pastel green, smelling sweet,
freshly cleaned, I lock the door behind & grin.

(K)

CONCEALED:

It’s all about back streets, outsider thinking, out of
The gossamer thin light of high street low brow, the
Alley walls carry rich marks, the parchment of
Bitter street poets. Found a book shop, the best
Since City Lights, San Francisco, another outsider
Castle, built on paper & ideals, you could’ve left me
There rest of my life, sweeping up, making Tea,
exchanging fragments with the ungalleried who
Call to pass the time.
www.boekiewoekie.com
In love with the smell of paper & ink, art driven by
Relentless desire.
Amsterdam, reveals it’s jewels at night, cruising
The artists quarter, mapping journeys, connecting
Stories, collecting marks & sculptures, alone
With the night, uninterrupted, we slip silently past
Bars rammed with ruddy faces, arm in arm, singing
As one to an accordion bathed in orange light.

(K)