31.05

(from a taped improv/loops rediscovered)

31 05 and still alive
Like thunder beating
But the heart is not an atoll

Is that the sky, is that the Sea?
Is that the better part of me?
Is that the rain, is that the wind?
Somebody’s dancing on the wing

I’m listening
to the steel heeled tapping
Rapping out a Morse code waltz no/one
Would give it credence
Give it neither ear nor eye
No wreckage left
To tell the lie
31.05

Navigation is just misdirection
When the messengers collide
When the Kingfishers of the morning come
When those wild birds hover and dive
Find the lady
Still alive

Curled beneath a walnut shell

God himself has played that game.

The English Impatient

(another find)
warning; contains swearing. please remember - i am NOT my characters. 
................

Concepts of ‘Englishness’ bothered Gerry, bothered him in the same way as blurred patches in his peripheral vision, the kind that didn’t go away but, however much he wiped his specs, just sort of smeared out on the edges, to the side or below. The same annoyance as a paper cut. Paper cuts always come with the jeering promise that, no matter what you do, sooner or later (in fact just sooner), you will be forced by the generally malign nature of things to use the wounded finger and repeatedly so. With a pair of specs it would be email, bills, files and forms from work, a laughing commuter thrusting out the funny pages of a daily paper – or else road-signs, bus stops, unexpected waving friends, yapping dogs, darting cats or footballs out of nowhere, billboard adverts, lurching cars at T-junctions, attractive women, all would remorselessly have to be looked at through the smear. Gerry disliked having to turn his head and he disliked having to deliberately look down or to the sides – and he hated flicking through pieces of paper, whether this was an innate thing, a natural quirk, or a borderline phobic reaction to 30-plus years of dirty glasses and sore fingers, Gerry wasn’t sure.

If the brain, as so often claimed, is but a large muscle, then, Gerry supposed, the mind was but a red edged finger in a dodgy pair of specs.

Or something. Anyway, yes, Concepts of –

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