Foot in Hand Piece

July 26, 2009

As the violin breathes
I have never seen
so much beauty

This man is sitting in a silver chair
This woman is sat on it’s wheel like a stair
This woman is dancing on knees.

As the violin breathes
I have never seen
so much beauty.

And nothing is said
They explain through their arms
Their bodies are movements
They move like they’re stars.

This man is a windmill
This woman a clock
This man is a preacher
This woman undone.

As the violin breathes.

There are eight of them.
They are running like prayers
They are wheeling through curtains
of silken black air.

There is ballet here
I have never seen
There is ballet here
It’s shaking me clean.

As the violin breathes.

And if life was a dance
It would look like these people
pulling apart then melting like treacle.

And the music is saying
there isn’t much time
The music is saying
we’ve got to rewind.

This woman is dancing
she is dancing on knees
she is collapsing and rising
her fingers like leaves

As violin breathes
I have never seen
there is ballet here
there is such beauty

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Draft 4

July 26, 2009

Some people hear words.
Some people hear sounds.
Someone speaks, an orchestra plays.
A dust cart sweeps, a choir raves.

Some people hear music
in sentences, music
in recipes,
music in prayers.

And he is sitting in a bar
in the middle of the night
hunched over a keyboard,
knuckles white.

And words are keys on a pianos face.
Words are there in the falling rain.
Words are just sounds.

A women walking, is a saxophone
A piano playing is a tiny home
with the moon like a bone
and the sky like lingerie.

A nine bar blues
is a word like sex
repeated,
insistantly

And a riff is a dream
you can pack in a chest.
A score is sheet
pulled over a bed.

And the music has words.

A congo is chanting a name.
A trumpet is scatting a phrase.
A cello’s describing the shape of a neck
A saxophone’s saying it feels like a wreck

He’s describing the sound of a gin
describing the sound
of a women who’s watching.

Some people hear words.
Some people hear sounds.

And they hang in the dark.
And the night sings alone.

Looking Glass (3)

July 26, 2009

Instead of words, some people hear music
Someone speaks and an orchestra plays.
A dust cart sweeps, a choir raves.

Some people see music
in sentences, music in adjectives
music in prayers.

And he is sitting in a bar
in the middle of the night
hunched over a keyboard,
knuckles white.

And words are keys on a pianos face.
Words are there in the falling rain.
Words are just sounds.

But a women walking, is a saxophone
A piano playing is a tiny home
with the moon like a bone
and the sky like lingerie.

A nine bar blues
is a word like sex
repeated,
insistantly

And a riff is a dream
you can pack in a chest.
And a score is sheet
pulled over a bed.

And the music has words.

A congo is chanting a name.
A trumpet is scatting a phrase.
A cello’s describing the shape of a neck
A saxophone’s saying it feels like a wreck

He’s describing the sound of a gin
describing the sound
of a women who’s watching

Some people hear words
Some people hear sounds

And they hang in the dark.
The night sings.

Some people hear notes instead of words.
Someone speaks, an orchestra plays
birds sing, radios breath.
Some people see music in sentences.

And words are keys on a pianos face.
Words are there in the falling rain.
Words are phrases, bars, choruses.
Words are colours, that sound like vortexes.

Words are just sounds.

But then a saxophone is a women walking
in the middle of the night
while someone’s talking
into her phone.

A piano playing is a tiny home
on the top of a hill,
with the moon like a bone
and the sky like a dress.

A nine bar blues
is a word like sex
repeated, insistantly
over again.

And a riff is a dream
you can pack in a chest.
And a score is sheet
pulled over a bed.

And a congo is chanting a name.
A trumpet is scatting a phrase.
A cello’s describing the shape of a neck
A saxophone’s saying it feels like a wreck

Some people hear words
Some people sing.

Imagine it

Some people hear notes instead of words.
An orchestra plays when someone speaks.
Birds sing, radios breath. Some people see
music, manifest, in the smallest, sentences.

And words are keys on a pianos face.
Words are there in the falling rain.
Words are phrases, bars, choruses.
Words are colours, that sound like vortexes.

Words are just sounds.

But then a saxophone is a women walking
in the middle of the night
while someone’s talking
into her phone.

A piano playing is a tiny home
on the top of a hill,
with the moon like a bone
and the sky like a dress.

A nine bar blues
is a word like sex
repeated and repeated
over again.

And a riff is a dream
you can pack in a chest.
And a score is sheet
pulled over a bed.

And a congo is chanting a name.
A trumpet is scatting a phrase.
A cello’s describing the shape of a neck
A saxophone’s saying it feels like a wreck

Some people hear words.
Some people could hear,
what Charlie Parker said
when his saxophone sung.

Some people hear words
Some people hear sounds
Sound people hear music

Imagine it
if we all came together
what we’d begin.

She watches dust:
this woman in a tie died top,
from underneath a miroscope
she tells me while she sips a coke –
she keeps an eye
on things too small to find
without machines:
particles like quantum scenes,
someone must
she watches dust
the levels in the air,
she tells me standing
by some stairs
inside the night.

She tells a ship it’s got to dowse
the coal it’s dumped
to cut the dust.

She samples heaps
upon the beach
she writes to them
their SX3’s
they’ve got to go:

stations find
another home.

She has the time
to sit and stare
she is aware
where others aren’t:

the elderly
their tiny arms
their shallow chests
it’s hurts them more
then you’d expect.

She keeps an eye.
She keeps things clean.
She watches dust
from 8 till 3.

She says:
more things
we cannot see,
then things we can.

Her eyes are dark
her hands are pale
they have no marks
from dust or shale.

We listen to a midnight gale
drum against a plastic sheet

I watch for dust.

And then she leaves.

Dust Girl

July 12, 2009

Maybe it’s the summer, maybe not, but lately I find myself spending more and more time out and about. It’s all very civilized mind.

For instance:

Yesterday I bought some long stemmed, blue wine glasses. Two different sets and a matching salt seller. I proudly took these cultured buys to the Slug and Lettuce, where, the shops all having closed, I drank a very civilized cup of tea with my lovely friend, the lovely Ola.

Amelie, her 3 month old baby sat on the table and chewed a menu.

Serge, Ola’s dad, occasionally held her up so she could have a go at walking.

There was also a bike riding clarinet player, called Jenny, who I hadn’t met before.

Later, my friend Jo happened by, and after the others had left with Amelie (exhausted from her table walking exploits) me and Jo went for pizza at the Criterion.

Whilst there we met up with Nick and Saskia, a man who used to work with the Kray brothers and a few others (3 women, 2 men) down from London for a wedding – corset – fitting – session.

We stayed till closing then pootled off to the Firebug, where one of these women stood with me in the rainy beer garden and told me that for living, she watched dust.

It is impossible to know where ideas for poems – or for that matter anything creative – will come from, but I have decided these long summer nights can only be good for waiting them out.

So, below is some of what blew in on the rain last night; wine glasses and salt seller, still wrapped up and waiting to be taken home. Poetry aside, I think I might do evenings like these more often.

Dust Girl.

She watches dust:
this woman in a tie died top
from underneath a miroscope
she tells me while she sips a coke
she keeps an eye
on things too small to find
without machines:
particles like quantum scenes
someone must
she watches dust
the levels in the air,
while we stand
beside some stairs
inside the night
and drink our drinks.

She tells a ship it’s got to dowse
the coal it’s dumped –
hose it off to cut the dust.
She samples heaps
upon the beach
she writes to them
their PM10’s
they’ve got to go –
their SX3’s, toxicities
they’ve got to leave
no trace behind –
sometimes stations have to find
another home.

She has the time
to sit and stare
she is aware
where others aren’t:
the elderly
their tiny arms
their shallow chests
it’s hurts them more
then you’d expect.

She keeps an eye
she keeps things clean
she watches dust
from 8 till 3
she says more things
we cannot see,
then things we can:

Like dust or love:
like dust in breeze.

It helps to know
that she can see.

Her eyes are dark
her hands are pale
they have no marks
from dust or shale.

We listen to the rain
fall against a plastic sheet.

We go inside.
She talks to someone else.