Now that's what I call a book-shop!!

Just another day

I descended to the depths of the stark, neon-shocked car-park in which my eyes were lead to pumping steam-pipes tuned to the dull thud of an mp3 richie hawtin mix that had accompanied me across the scudding ribbon-grey motorway to this place.

I ascended in halos, circled in the ambient elevator that paused to take on fresh stocks for the restaurant one floor up, the missing porter no more than a thin red line of blood traced down the corridor with sweated meat and fresh vegetables extracted in the dull dawn of the market just round the corner. He was not here, the porter. But his boxed traces reeked of meals to come and flashing lunch-time smiles beneath the long drop of a glass-ceilinged atrium, floored deep beneath my offices.

I hid in the shadows.

The elevator rose.  Each floor passing in an aluminium cell, windowless, unknown and incensed, spitting sparks to the steam-pumps still beating the rhythm of a dark mix playing to no-one in a silent, gated car-park long below.

I arrived to find I had been here before.

There was a vacant chair and rain to greet me as I flattened myself against the glass and shot into the morning.  Just another day as I pressed my heart to feel the pulse of the city streets below.

Letter home

Ma,

I feel compelled to write ya'll, given the grave sufferances of these last sore days. It was not of my makin' that, tarred and feathered, they pushed me to the Styx with a host of flies buzzin' in mah poor ears. See, they would not desist, even when we hit the water in that cold, cold hemp bag.

It was of that very self-same strange light wherein I spied ya, writhin' on the chair like some hog-tied sucklin' pig.  It was from sheer pity that mah chain-saw fell. You know that, ma!  When I fetch out my eye-glass to look-see and it was all bones and blubber on the floor, do you think it was not in my very contemplation to offer you mah hand in dance?

Were it not that it too lie severed and stumbling in the sawdust beside ya'll, scuttlin' off to shadow as fass as its floppy little fingers would permit.

They say I am a bad, bad boy, ma but dance is all for my wanton do.

Just waltz-time limbless and flapping.

yours as ever ….

journey no. 12 - mystery ride

hard-core asphalt

past

street-lights and swaying motorway overheads

we ate

in the road

deep gulps of rape-streaked

mustard

johny2bad

racing for the border

helmeted and hidden

in the well 

of a frozen lift-shaft

always, always watching his back

as 

we

disappear

yet

again

together

into 

one

more

multi-strafed

techno-color

dream