THE STEELY TWINS GO TO MANCHESTER:

“Somethings go right, somethings go wrong, you just got to
make the best of what you got.”
(Sounds like we’re just chatting now, being present & alert)
“My old man’s my old man, y’know? I am what I am &
my old man is what I am, D’ya know what I’m sayin?
There are very few things as unreliable as memory.”

(K)

CORBY:

On a Scottish island, floating in a sea of England,
an heroic monument, symbol of optimism, fallen from the stars.
Theatre of hope & regeneration, new generation, nation seed of
decimated industry, box of burnished glass & steel, proudly set
it’s jaw against a crystal sky, summer cast a glance over the
bitter streets of winter.

Pull you collar tight, meet you on the second tear, get ’em in at
‘Planet Coffee’, the soldier from Croatia meets the soldier from
The Troubles, exchanging empathetic glances, hang his poems on the
wall for all & craving, desire, ambition, beaten down but still
getting back up. Push-chair moms, retirees, flat-screen tele on a
bracket in the corner radiates violent colours, adds for mothers
stuck at home & others & the smiles behind the counter serving heat
in paper cups with love.
Stand with me on the second tear, silent in the pink light of
late afternoon & breath. Rhythm of feet below us, crossing precincts,
mapping habits, systematic routes, wheels & heels in motion, going
somewhere, digging in, standing up, pulling rabbits out’ve hats,
a long way from the speak & spin of that other country in the South.

(K)

SOMEWHERE NEAR KETTERING:

Obedient to the 6:45 lie-in alarm, from a bed of unfamiliar
silences, a night of punctured dreams. It was like sleep,
but not, last night, like sleep, fitful, disconnected,
discontinuous, intermittent, fragmentary, broken.
I’m single-glazed this morning, membrane tight as a drum,
can hear birdsong in the next county, ticking clocks in
locked rooms of houses in the next town, the whisper of paper
not yet turned.
Last evening, at the theatre of dinner, welcomed into the light,
I began my listening, would’ve drowned on any other day,
flailing in the torrent of conversation, were it not for the passion
stringing pearls of words, beats, clicks, twinkle-eyed winks, rough
as un-hewn diamonds dug straight from earth, dirty & proud of it,
the uncut celebration of life! I was mute, stunned into listening,
(you would’ve laughed) stoned on the joy-of-food made with love,
delivered as performance, surfing on the rhythm of voices carrying
energies I’d forgotten, plugged in, vibrating, knife, fork, spoon.
“Do you want custard with that?”

(K)

BORN AGAIN:

I’ve just been built, like metalwork, arranged & delicate,
ready for what you want. You laugh, thank you. Leave with me,
walk with me, as I learn how to breath. In sync with the rhythm
of the clicking of your heels.

(K)

SURFING WAVES AT THE BBC:

BBC radio’s been my most consistent music teacher, a constant
throughout my life. Feels like ChristmasBirthday when I arrive,
the smell of electricity, fizz of radio waves ripple round the
world, stone thrown in a pond, late night or day time, the joy
of music shared.
Today 3:00-6:00pm (UK) BBC 6Music have generously given me
freedom to broadcast the music I’ve been listening to, between
sessions in the studio with Rick. New – received weekly
from around the world, tracks I’ve picked up night driving,
surfing the radio waves & selections from my library
that felt like they belonged.

(K)

SOMEWHERE OVER THE RAINBOW:

Until we find somewhere to live together,
somewhere you fall in love with,
I won’t need a heartbeat,
just spirit.

(K)

DAISY DAISY:

The girl with the Gold Mickey speaks with a novelty
French accent, laughing like crying, but not.

(K)

MR INVISIBLE:

Elevation waiting with it’s legs out in the aisle.
Fascinating look on your face, tired.
Everything is OK.
I’m not here.

(K)

LIKE COCOANUT MUSHROOMS:

The Boy in the Tiger Coat, sky wrapped around his head,
looks lost. Girl with a telephone, faith on a t-shirt,
talks to herself, uncoiling her wires. Smiling, lies back
on the pavement, eyes distant, sending messages, fingers
dancing, the heels of shoes clicking around her.
She likes it, comforting, like cocoanut mushrooms.

(K)

AT THE LATE NIGHT EXPERIMENTAL JAZZ BAR:

The shockhaird bartender waits for silence to announce,
“For everyone who came late, you have to pay!”
Looks with disdain in Dutch, I like him. Pulls my drummerboy
to one side, whispers, smiling,
“I bought a new kit, a good one, now we have two. Two grooves
for you. One at each end of the room. Go away, think about it,
come back with an idea, make it serious & I’ll give you the night.”

(K)