Thursday, 4 October 2012


I originate with the drum 
Call me humanity 
For arguments sake 
 When all's said and done 
Let's consider me worth more than a salary 
And that's all very well 
As an abstract concept  
I can debate economics casually 
 As a peer
Real recognise Real 
I acknowledge common ground bashfully 
And shuffle my feet asking 
Can't we just get along without you asking me 
What I'm worth
What my weight in gold is
What my value is? 
I'll remain adamant
You can't put a tag on this 
Translate me to currency
 Reduce me to property
 Trap me in poverty
 I originate with the drum 
The beat
I am rich beyond measure
 Food for thought
 Fuel for peace 
I am tears on sacred ground 
I am sacrifice for belief 
The rain above your head 
The roots beneath your feet 
I originate with the drum 
And I end there
 Resurrected between beats 
intimacy between eaves 
intricacy of wheat-sheaves
 magic in the tea leaves 
The joy when we arrive 
 Sadness when we leave 
 Legacies upon legacies upon
Painful legacies 
And the hope they carry 
The first hint of a melody 
I originate with the drum 
And live in the breath on the off beat 
Art is not technique 
And I am not a unit 
I am failure 
I am imperfection 
Uniformity bores me to fuck 
I originate with the drum
And I echo 
I might buckle but I'm never crushed 
And I re-emerge 
 A vein formed around the pulse 
Transparent skin stretched tight 
Compressed as the waves rush 
Flowing through to the edge and back 
With the drum 
Never deviating 
No mediation necessary 
Yet contemporary 


How many frames must we squeeze into before we find that one that fits and starts, heads nodding in the half light to another performance? Stationary, removed, we sedate and quell the fires of rebellion in our heads in our hearts, and celebrate the presentation replica of the very same. 

Shielded by screens,false serenity,slick sheen  
Exorcise our demons; it's all a part of the process.
Cycling back through images of debauched recent past
Commercial street bar bathroom stall finds text message provocation; this woman replied unexpectedly with the awaited initiation, only to remove it and leave little romeo hanging again, to read and write in an open plan office filled with Thursday night blue moon emptiness.

An open bottle in an orange plastic bag defiantly enjoyed in the dry beige train carriage speaks the same whatever the language of the salute; a tarot book confusion headache, the blunt echo of yesterday's drinking, such a sophisticate  such a glutton: 

Loose laces;
loose buttons; 
loose grasp; 
lose morals; 

Morals of stories that used to have some, allegories that lost their way because their figures of speech just didn't add up, the sheet could not balance and thus the music lost it's home. 
Memories lost in trade because of structural flaws in the construct; the tower could not balance and thus the moments all jumped.
Desolate, 3 drinks later, your friends gone
move from green lit saturday night bar to 
same platform where 
premonition of reciprocity was felt and wait, balled brown paper bag brushed aside onto tiled floor. A rejection.