THE FIRST OF DARKDARK:

Winter puts it’s new teeth in, dressed in the head of
Autumn. Essex hunches, hooded, in the rain, white knuckle
fists thrust deep into pockets. Head down, walking fast
& blinkered, summer’s trainers stained & beating a sloppy
rhythm.

(K)

LEST WE FORGET:

The master in his Royal Bedroom re-invents history.

(K)

ANY OTHER SATURDAY:

Porridge, Herb tea (the proper stuff screws my singing),
Bagel with honey, Herb tea (a different sort – I get bored!).
Walk in the fields, warm Autumn sunlight on my back, chill,
drive to the station, catch a train to the Emerald City.
Meet some friends, have some fun, come home.

(K)

SURREALISM ON TOAST:

Basil Faulty & Iggy Pop on breakfast radio, it’s raining fish.

(K)

TALKING TO THE FEET:

I don’t know what to write, I’m rinsed out by yesterday’s
broadcast. The journey we’ve been on, this road, has taken
some twists I thought I didn’t have the wheels to drive
& yet, here we are, a kick drum & a light bulb, two voice
& feet determined to dance. I love what Norman Mailer says,
recounting that night in the dressing room with the great
Mohamed Ali before The Rumble in The Jungle. Everyone
around him is racked with fear for what they believe is
going to be a mauling of their man, but the great man
inspires them with the words,
“What are we gonna do? We’re gonna dance!”

(K)

WINJERS:

That was something special.

(K)

UP FROM THE DOWNS:

There’s a drumming on the roof in the dark, a rhythmic hissing from the black-top beyond the trees, the morning kiss of an Autumn chill as a dispassionate clock dishes the 6:00am alarm. Check my bones, my skin, my head, listen for breathing next to me…silence. Was it a row?, a call to nurse the sick?, an early rise for an overdue promise?, are we still speaking? I feel around for all my parts, state of mind, health & find that nagging cold still knocking on the back door to be let in, full blown bedridden, but I have no time for the luxury of illness. The dark & cold hold the seed of a thrill so I grab it & ride it’s energy like a parasite all the way to the Emerald City, fortified on throat coat & honey, fresh bees fed on Thyme from the other side of the sun, slip a couple of Red & Greens onto the tongue & surf them down the hole on the sting of cold water. Brixton, it’s been a long time. The buzz of legend memory, nights in public, full illumination & the dark trawling skull-dug of a dogboy on the hunt. Brixton in daylight feels wrong & suits my mood. I want to walk in the sun, soak up the light & store it for Winter. My first exhibition of the day is on the pages of Time Out – a small portable paper gallery. The first art of the day is rendered in ink, ‘gallery’ is just a state of mind as I jump the kick drum & ride.

(K)

WAGON TRAINING:

Red morning sky, shepherds take cover, rain waves
a cold hand over Essex. Rap up, load the truck,
knuckles pink & cut. Shake that head cold off &
sink another mug of throat-coat. We’re moving in
to London.

(K)

GEEZER WITH A VAN:

There’s an Autumn crystal sky stretched over Essex,
rich Cyan-to-milk on the horizon. The morning
holds it’s breath waiting for the first car, cyclists
nod, slipping lycra between the fields, human flies,
plastic heads, imaginary olympians, going the distance.
I took the things you said to me days ago & laid them
as foundations, for a bad day. They churn around in the
washing machine, staining all my whites. I stoke & feed
the flame of isolation, wounding ‘little ego’ with a
fevered imagination & an old lust for resentment.
You’re probably out in the sun, enjoying Autumn’s freebee,
or maybe, alone, wondering. This desire to lash out is tired,
thorn in the paw of a wrinkled fable. It’s an old joke on
broken record, all the laughs were dark as echoes.
I boil the kettle, remembering what the tribes of Essex taught,
moving on. No worries, I know a geezer with a van.

(K)

PAINTS AROUND RIVERSTONES:

A day expanding concepts with a brother from Cardiff,
driving the back roads with pen & paper. Bathed in light,
in love with parallel lines, marks left behind by the
obedient plough – we ooh & wow! John Cage paints around
river stones with feathers dipped in pigment, pulls a
team of brushes harnessed to a wooden machine. Down the
lines of paper journeys, John Cage cutting furrows for
the winter crop of years, leaves us benefactors of his
bountiful harvest.

(K)