QUIET US:

A low Brecon Cloud descends to wrap around us annexing us
from the world and everything gets simple, even the sound
of the day, everything is in the same small room. Spiders
build dew festoons in nettle, bramble, rose hip & hawthorn.
Silver candy floss hogweed sticks. Birds fly low, call in
muted song from the edge of fields, check they’re not alone
& for a brief moment everything is calm after another violent
evening.

(K)

IN THE HOLE:

We were led down into a dark hole in the ground,
brutal concrete stained by the rain of nicotine sweat
& beer. They sat us on hard stools, fed us chilli dogs
& fish tea, shined lights in our faces & asked questions.
The walls were luminous & plastic, exposed wires,
naked bulbs, yellowed by smoker’s breath. Their faces
were obscured by light, their questions awkward, invasive,
uncomfortable, returning us to places  I was happy to have
left. Then they opened boxes, ransacked attics & foraged
behind radiators, peered beneath sofa cushions, held up
mirrors & asked us to ‘look’.
Pastries & chilled bottled waters served with smiles, yet
always returning to the past. A face, a body, a voice
re-appeared outside, manifested with familiar smile & romance,
as if no time had ever passed between then & now, summoned,
it seems, by the mere mention of the thing in question’s name.

The man on the phone asked me,
“If you were Lord of the Underworld what would you have
down there.”
I was relieved, it was the easiest of all the questions,
“Good Curry” I answered.

(K)

A BUZZING:

There’s a bright yellow light coming low across
the fields, a peaceful hiss filtered through a thin
morning haze. Foreground in sharp relief, middle distance
is a cut-out, stuck in fresh ploughed earth in hues of blue.
The sky is blue too, broken by dispersing clouds, face down
with dirty bellies running from the aftermath of an enormous
fire, white on their tips of their outstretched fingers
reaching to touch the sun.
Birdsong & stillness except, connected to the hiss behind the
haze. Everything is calm, in sequence, tiny clicks, except for
a single electric motor thing, buzzing frantically behind the
trees & coming this way.

(K)

BLACK IN BLUE:

The man in Black arrived in a Dark Blue car,
“I’ve come for my boots” he said, and laughed.
We’d laughed about his boots a lot in recent
times & now the joke was about to reach it’s
conclusion I thought I detected a light sadness
in his laugh.
“Come, sit down. There’s cake & coffee, almond
paste sweets from foreign lands, jugs of breadsticks
exotic biscuits & fat green olives, fresh from the city.
A banquet has been laid in honour of your visit”
The man in Black sat down at our table, remembering
not to remove his shoes, lest they go the way of
his boots – we laughed. He told me stories of his
travels, of gorges, wild water ravines, walking,
unfettered by path or signpost. We both made a face
when spoke of the crowded places lining the Ocean
& how he had turned from them in revulsion,
returning to the wild with his tribe.
He ate the almond paste sweets from foreign lands,
drank his coffee long & Black and kept the laughter
alive, tossing ad-libs between us as we caricatured
the members of our tribe with affection.
As he left, I slipped his boots into his hands,
noting that his, unlike mine, were devoid of fat
socks – we laughed, and I was still laughing
as his tail lights followed the sound of that Dark Blue car
into the distance. As happened ever time we met, his
leaving left a silent hole, his laughter triggers missed
yet the sound of our combined happiness reverberated around
the room as we re-entered, counting the days until his return.

(K)

LORD RADIO:

Driving through the sun, dodging winged things fling
themselves from hedgerows. Sun sets over fields of corn stubble,
transformed into sheets of precious metals. Sky turns grey as
slate, foreground luminous in super 3D the way I like it best.
Listening to Lord Radio & The Bimshire Boys.

(K)

I DON’T KNOW YEAH:

I looked in my brain & couldn’t find a thing.

(K)

SOMEWHERE ELSE:

Who’s that in the fat bins branded loud with the usual mark, head nodding? Who’s that, face down, fingers flipping, spraying words out to a virtual world? Who’s are the eyes staring off into the distance, skinny white wires snake into the ears vibrating? Who’s hands are these talking to you now, I used to know them, will you return them clean when you’ve finished with them?

(K)

SHADOW MAKES A SOUND:

Drove through the city late last night, radio surfing,
street lights casting sweeping zig-zags like the shadow hands
of giant clocks. Every shadow makes a sound, every building
whispers, you can hear it in the day if you slow down or when
you’re tired, but at night it’s crystal clear.

(K)

RAIN LOVE:

Turning the key, the engine sputtered from being silent
for so long – the whole car gave a fevered shake. It was good
to be back behind the wheel, wipers arcing across the glass.
Sat there for a moment in the moment waiting for the engine
to reclaim it’s song, listening to the sound of the rain,
the music of these islands, enjoying the feel of sleeves,
the weight of a jacket, legs wrapped in denim again. Good to
feel the wheel, look up the road, flick on the headlights & drive.

(K)

FAKE JAZZ:

There’s a tanned guy in a beard & Timberland cap
pulled low over his eyes, grooving to the Jazz-a-mataz
cool vibes of the elevator jam discharging like fumes
from hidden holes in the departure lounge. His girlfriend
looks up, as if in prayer, from beneath a wide brimmed straw
& floral frock as he shuffles papers in his passport
keeping time with the monotone beat, the bounce-n-pop of
mellow smooth fat bodied guitars & lazy fake organs.
He bops-n-sways up to the check-in desk in three quarter
stone-washed & track shoes, head down, one shoulder dropped,
rolling to imagined cool as the idle tone of a dull-witted
saxophone pops a cheeky melody. Both him & the cheese horn
groove on down the pier & disappear into the plane which
grows a face & starts to grin & squat & sway in time with the
elevator jazz cloud hanging over the departure lounge.
Two hours of this music makes me ill, but the dance of the
tanned guy in the Timberland cap transformed bad cheese into
a kind’ve twisted performance art – that lifts us, takes us
out’ve ourselves.

(K)