Old and boring songs.

Tap tap tap drift light as dust summer cataclysm days hollow and riney blowing forwards like so much glitter. Midsummer distilled nothingness even the car is driving itself today.

Sweat harmonics come to these ears. All that is left of blood pressure skull bone flying westwards. Closer, hold still against the sill; crushed shells random foliage against bare feet. The old place in sight; holding breath now, perspiring in summer stillness. John Clare close at hand, footings to scramble soils sandy clays bright orange with jagged shards of flint installed to light the way. Do we know the host that brought us here; what value is it to be worth something to somewhere? Value and quality collaborate in steel, sweat and then some. The place is artificial now; a memory museum. Old municipal building now castles; rubble islands, the nation’s glands pulse entrails, networks of sealed errors. Calumny of increased bandwidths, long slow drones where semi silent pulses of voice surface occasionally from the hovering dust motes into actual recognisable speech patterns. Then take the train Brighton, you will be staying in the formerly bombed out section of the Metropole. Look there for clues; remnants of Thatcher’s Britain. “Please be my friend,” a voice beckons from the corridor like the twins from The Shining ; a glimpse and their gone. “Room service!!!!”

 

Musicians, daemons, gather round! 

47 years of crap underneath me, stacked like mount Everest, flowing into undulating vistas of hard encrusted shite. Spiralling off into the distance; forming valleys and canyons as far as the horizon. 

To summon the energy to clamber off this mound of brown is too great so here I sit on my throne of shit. Surveying the landscape with a mixture of pride and remorse. Everyone sits. Everyone shits.

Drizzle drazzle droozle dizzle. Dry liquid forms, corner of the mouth. It’s a hash pipe but we’re calling it a flute. They found it in the bushes. A mystery turd sits malevolently by the roundabout. A cluster of metallic blue shit fly’s shimmer across its surface each one never staying still for more than a second. I want to gag at the sight of it. Children  rush by narrowly avoiding catastrophe. In the shade under the tree line men wrestle on a blue plastic mat. Locked in positions; inaudibly grunting. Rustle buzz hum trains passing; the back and forth of the swings and on we go.