I never listen to my body complain until it shouts; lie down, cosy, listen to the storm outside until it abates. Care should not be a rare treat.
Second new moon of January; Lunar Imbolc ; 200% more water; creative flood; sap’s rising. Let’s GROW.
amongst the architectural facelift and regen. stupefication is the Kings Cross loper; peak pulled down over slim pickled features; trainers do the talking. You. ain’t. seen. him.
I stop on Lambeth Walk, and think of my Granddad who ran barefoot through this street, where he grew up. Oi!
flytip-toe through broken glass, old paint pots, garden debris, fence panels- another early morning adventure in the alley; new friendships formed in neighbourly outrage; we are people until Politics.
a series of Countdown Conundrums: constant ticking, no idea what the answer is but a solution is expected. At least I am not consonanting C*r*l V*rd*rm*n
Every day I returned to Peter Doig’s Reflection (What Does Your Soul Look Like?) because each time I stood in front of it I felt free.
knowledge measured in pleats; master of stitched down folds; parade of killer heels.
Two games of football, three bowling strikes, (inflatable plastic pumpkin; toilet roll skittles) den building, hide and seek. Then breakfast.
lysergic view, sidereal vision, retracing dark holloway, newly weaned Houdini, key in mouth
gulls sketch loose lines on the sky, part of this landscape, changing, returning, remembered since childhood
A Hag Stone. Weighty. For hanging on thoughts which need to be bound.
mudlarks stoop, turn the loosened edges of this compacted city, ragged clues to the past, regulated by the moon
crumble slouch couch slide cut-up slice comb sift collage stick at it
gurn at storage. a morning at Ikea will do that to you. skiffle and biscuits. the living room becomes a battlefield strewn with lightsabers, rifles and samurai swords. paper planes to go.
snakeskin marmalade dessicated sense attempt to form new breathable surface by Imbolc
rummaging in a basement in the smoke. found a dusty review of Never Mind The Bollocks from 1978: “A record that will never be loved”. No Future.
We splashed down the hill laughing, the smell of egg and chips carried through the rain. In an hour we’ll do the reverse. Running up that hill, with no problems.
catapult construction as poem; once materials have been sourced…
Thimble from caucus race, blinded by sunlight; joined the dance home, frozen in starlight.
From Middle English, the word benefit signified a kind deed or something well done. They have twisted it and made it ugly. It represents them.
The back alleys I played in as a child are fly-tipped, sludgy with mud, unkempt with saplings. Front gardens concreted for cars.
Pint-sized raindrops from sky turned too dark to see photos of frozen waves frost a lighthouse on Lake Michigan
waterlogged park hum drum grey light dreams sunk in despond
flecks of luminous colour remade in rhythm from water and night
silver sideways bluster bare branched mistletoe globe silouhettes