Podcast A Moi

This will be my last podcast for a little while - but the blog continues here.Place of smells and silenceOf faces and paperA haze of careLift The PatientThe Patient Is LiftedHandflighted into bedI can't resistLift The Patient The Patient Is LiftedSink featherlight forever into sheetsDrift into conversations with someone.In the rainTwo fat pigeons snuggle in.I perch to shit on a tea trayIn the night count drips of salineInvaded by fearMemories of blood and light.The old man in the bed next door shouts " Joanna!"At least I think it was him.

The night you twocced my heartI thought it was secured -Parked, locked and under lightsTaxed, tested and insuredThe night you twocced my heartI left it parked in gearDownhill in the suburbsAnd dented in the rearThe night you twocced my heartIt had been cleaned – it’s justThe exterior trim was shabby With a lot less chrome than rust.The night you twocced my heart.At forty it was shakingIt backfired in the morningAnd had inconsistent braking.The night you twocced my heartYou’d have spotted something wrongThe carburettor floodsIf you choke it for too longThe night you twocced my heartThe heat blew hot – then coldThe fan-belt started squeakingAnd an offside tyre was bald.The night you twocced my heart It veered slightly to the leftCovered only by Third PartyImmune to fire or theft.The night you twocced my heartIt did have a full tank– A tiger’s tail and stickerSaying “Atomkraft – Nein Danke”The night you twocced my heart. It’s one of the older types Ready for a re-tune And white Go Faster stripes.The night you twocced my heartI thought you’d soon despairThe clutch is always slippingAnd the body needs repairThe night you twocced my heart.Why you took it is a mystery.It had several careless ownersAnd no full service history.It isn’t a new modelIt doesn’t always startBut it went from nought to sixtyThe night you twocced my heart.

always arrives a wet dog coughinglike dawn doors in the gloomor axe on wooddays end early toomy conker socket eyesstare up at lower sunsdead things turn white belliedtoward the Northand first frost expectedthought lostetched in laced dreams of glassedges icedand a letter to a loverpenned from the front lineripped open eagerlyas snow falls smiling

This is a poem and some music that I wrote in 2001 at the height of the outbreak of Foot and Mouth Disease in the North East of England. I subsequently recorded it with the superb Northumbrian Piper Andy May on his album "The Yellow -Haired Laddie " released on Fellside in 2003. It was a real honour to collaborate with Andy and I hope one day to be able to write another piece of music for him.

On the floor in my hallwayEarly spring sunlight on our facesWe sit in shadowless conversation.Through the open door the daffodils nod acquaintance with translucent privetAnd the sweet smell of earth rises.You tell me about the time you sat in a room for a whole dayMoving round to follow the sunAs it lit each wall in turn.On reflectionI think that the sun followed youAnd finally, at duskLay with its head on your lapAs I do now.

I see him standing at the door of a hotel roomSomewhere downtownJust in his underwearWith the light behind himReefer Clint-clamped between his teethA headless gunnerLetting fly with his Colt 45Laughing as he turns his back toMotherfuckermotherfuckermotherfuckerRinging in his earsMy Odeo Channel (odeo/beae3566f0ffea4e)

The old man smilesMother of pearlAcross his fretboardDoes he dream?Is this his dream?That his fingers dribble over notesLike water over the rocks of a Mississippi streamWhere the dangerous boy from TupeloBathes in the spotlightVisible only from the waist up.

His head and his hairs were white like wool, and white as snow; and his eyes were as a flame of fire; and his feet like unto fine brass,as if they burned in a furnace; and his voice as the sound of many waters. American Bandstand. 1962.His beltbuckle leaves a searing sunspot on the screenAs he prowls sleek and slick like the Arkansas pantherThat used to follow him home from chapel.His voice the rasp of a sharpening razor.Beehive girls swarm the foot of the stageOffer him all with their eyesTonight he ambles, a big black bearWith the barrel bellychest and saddlebag eyesOf a man who’s spent his life in the deep darkness beneath.Folsom Prison Blues.That voiceNever missing a piston-beatOf the freight-train rhythm.His band of young gunfightersStill watching for a finger twitchFrom the Man in BlackAs the song pulls into the sidings He smiles like he’s seen the sunCloses it softly like a piano lidOr a coffin.

A dead weight.A desert nightBlack Strung outAs our bootlace ties.The gasoline smellA faraway cityThe fleeting shadow of a man with a spearCaught in the flames.A promise kept.I remember the oak treeThat we used to climbStillSomeone should say somethingAs a hickory wind Blows the smoke South.

Randy’s flyin’ the planeI can see his neck muscles stretched tautAs he tries to hold us in the stormI love that ol’ neckThe hair bed-tousledFrom runnin’ jumpin’ an ‘ playin’I want it all to stopTo feel his hands on my facePlay house.The lights of Camden Tennessee passLow and fastUnderneathI fall to piecesCrazyFor thinking that my love could hold you

Young Charlie Carr's got this tune running round his head( It’s Jambalaya - but he don't know that. He don't speak French.)Whistles it between his teeth over heater hum and Cadi purr.Don’t wanna wake The ManSweat-stetsoned in the back seatStaring eyeless at a desert focal pointAs a pallid dawn blurs by.

I wrote this short story a couple of years ago and it was subsequently published in Sand Magazine.It's based on a real event.

Breakfast is over.John Humphries is whispering in the backgroundA sawing noise comes from the gardenMum has looked through her Get Well Cards again.Now she’s planning her day.“What time are you leaving?”The voice is blurredEye contact imprecise“ About 12.30”She nods like she’s understood a foreign languageEverything is recordedIn her “Book Of Remembrance”:Lunch! ( S leaving at 12.30 )Look for holiday diaryGeraniumsPay JohnOutside I foot the ladderWhile my stepfather performs tree surgery on the plum.I look up at him An old man in overalls swaying against a blue skyCrashing the gnarled dead wood down onto the buddleiaWith a murmured warning.Knows I’ve seen.He paints the fresh wounds with a grey sticky liquidGentle as a priestAs I drag branches to the bonfireHis silence says as much as her talkHer talk as his silenceWhile I the intercessor of their loveSay goodbye to both of them

A rainbow Arch - perfect Catch its colours in the street names.Emerald. Ruby. GarnetWatch the pier dribble people out over the seaWhere surfers hurdle the wind-whipped breakersUnder a shark-shaped cloudWe walk the tidelineDig into conglomerated memories of seasidesMe an excited puppyScattering thoughts across the beachChasing every movement You digging deeperWith a pale sunlight smile.This is your place.Amber streetlamps pull the last light from the skyBut we grin like dogs against the biting windStumbling back over rain peppered pebblesSandblasted younger

His redhaired son and Little Mermaid daughter are asleep A sea breeze whispers them goodnight KashmirWeaves with cigarette smoke and talkOut into the dark of the olive grove belowFar away in timeChristosFamily manSilversmith FriendShirtless we push the wine bottle and conversation forward and backward like chess pieces whileA mantis knits and watches from the warm wallWe’ve agreed that Sotirios Kyrgiakos has settled well with RangersAnd what the thing about women isSheila at his side tuts in the Greek way that has become herFans herselfStrokes his leg That Independence Day is Philip Roth’s best novelSheila and the mantis both look up but say nothingThat sometimes you just wish …Then as a dog barks somewhere out in the nightStalemate.Was it Ultravox or Martha and The Muffins?