DOWN TREE LINED BOULEVARDS TO SACCHARINE:

Woman on the radio says, “Messy-Head”, for a night drive
down tree-lined boulevards to saccharine M.O.R. –
another bleating piano song to dull the senses. Thrill my eyes on
Heavy Eastern Block architecture, squat with intent. In a barber’s
window a shrine, a footballing legend in Black & White as the radio
dribbles I try to float off the back seat of this Mercedes,
to keep the stink of it off my clothes – don’t intend to spend all
weekend smelling like a puke-blood-sweat-stain – the seat belt
smells of rancid butter.

Listing to ‘Baton’ from ‘Bonita‘

(K)

THIS LUCKY DRIVER:

The Cafe Rose is empty beneath vulgar illuminations.
Lights low, lost it’s soul, beneath the railway lines.
Dirty rip, waiting on the corner, two men teeter in
heavy winter black, smoke curling from their mouths, grinning,
lean into each other over a crate of beer.
“Welcome to Berlin! This Lucky driver is your Taxi to Hotel”

(K)

ON LANDING:

I heard you gasp as we hit the ground, wet with flashing lights.
Everybody turn your phones on, all you fingers & thumbs come
out to play.

(K)

TIME:

It went, into: words in a cafe, music in a studio,
hands on the wheel, snow on the road, tea & sweet stuff.
Turned mail off on my phone inspired by an article in
the weekend Observer, see how much tech-noise I can
live without, keep it simple, free up space between
the ears, for:
words in a cafe, music in a studio, hands on the wheel,
snow on the road, tea & sweet stuff.

(K)

THE OTHER IS FOR EVERYTHING ELSE:

Old coffee in a cold car smells like zoo,
that’s another piece of poetry Honey &
the radio is laughing sparks.

‘How Am I Meant to Know?‘ – Tom Vek

(K)

STREET SCULPTURE:

I’m waiting, inflatable man. Beer, Whiskey, Rock n Roll
you dance with me.

‘Rid of Me‘ going round in my head

(K)

IT’S NOT THE LEAVING, IT’S THE COMING BACK:

This one for the sky hole to kiss me, this one for the earth
to remain, this one for recycled wind to breath, this one for
Essex to hold the memory, this one for black top, this one for
fields, this one for frozen puddle sticks, this one for flooded
ditch, this one for bin day, this one for sun rise, this one
for the star I watched from bed one morning following the turn
of the world,this one for the leaving,
this one for our safe return.

(K)

INTO THE CITY OF DREAMS

Make the juice, shave the face, ride the train.

(K)

THE BIG BIN DAY GALLERY OPENING SPEECH BUBBLE OF LIGHT:

He was waiting for me as usual, up by the bins, watching me
for signs as I dragged through the mud, head down,
caught up in my stuff.  He was sheltering from the wind in the
leigh of a tree, invisible against the black trunk, black-blue dark
gathering to release it’s light. He was bear foot as usual, muddy
from crossing the fields, gauging the vibe from the way I walked,
adjusted his approach by increments. I pulled the bins into place
with the same balletic arc that I always use, the same move I make
with a brush, a pencil, a piece of charcoal.’The Bins’is as much
‘art’ to me as making paintings & just as satisfying. Out here the
galleries have no walls no complications & the light…………..
the light is alive.
It fell silent, no hissing rubber, no black top kiss, even the trees
stopped whispering. We gave our customary nod, his eyes twinkled &
that always does me, can’t stop the mouth from curling.
I was up for it & he knew.
Inclining his head East towards the light, he turned, leaving a
space at his side for me to fill as I relaxed, we stood together
watching the sun rise, speaking without saying a thing.

(K)

TWO GREEN HEAVYWEIGHTS GOING IN FOR THE KISS:

Drove to the station at sunrise, thin milk sky, Blue.
Cars in Blacks & Greys, metal, rubber & glass, all the
colour stuff locked up for summer cruising. You & me
riding in the glow of a radio dial, sound off, we savour
silence. When you speak, the sound of your voice, you could
say anything, electrifies the moment in the moment, ignites
the air, spotlit in headlight’s glare, I grinning. We nod &
note the tired faces, the Rabbit eyes, caught in headlights
as we weave between, unspoken in our ritual silence. We don’t
need to say anything, why?, when for years all we’ve done is
point & smile & drop a word, a tone, a wink, acknowledging that
same experience, witnessed it together, life.  Sharing this time
without the need to say anything is more precious to me now than
it was when we first met.
Back then, back in Romford 1990’s I had no idea it would all go
so soon. The taxi drivers & the geezers, all the ones that went
before told me,
“Savour every second, son, it’ll all be gone before you blink”
I haven’t closed my eyes since then, afraid to let them close,
don’t want to miss anything, walking corridors at night to
listen to your breathing, lit up, shaking, just to see you,
sit in silence by your side, driving you anywhere. The silence
‘with you’ is better than a thousand phone calls ‘without’.

Listening to YEAH YEAH NOH

(K)