I sat with Blake's Thel which messed up my decasyllabics
& recalled a gentle modal grope on E [Dorian]
I reversed through the gloaming with Zoot Sims' Doggin Around
redolent of the last local outdoor festivities
a rusty Christmas tree flat on its back in the lay-by
her beds were unpicked brillo pads of twisted thorn & briar:
a waist-high summer wilderness of green curved air & wire
the pillow slips she stitched by hand throughout the month of May
now hanging in the Lowestoft branch of Help the Aged
Berlioz said that for the revolution you needed
four brass bands: one to cover every exit from the church
when you finally get the boat back into the water
the wood should swell & close the gaps below the waterline
but this will only happen if you believe that it will
it's easy to see you're still feeling muff-
led the old romantic jammer
with a bent & tarnished tube full of ancient pains & trains
a Yamaha Silent Brass System stuffed up your bell end
partly but not exclusively
for the sake of the neighbours
one lead from the trumpet-mute
to the black box on my belt
the other flows from the holes in my head to your box babe
you might play out your heart for years with no-one listening
sitting with a lapful of warm chips in a dirty Vauxhall
cheap malt vinegar two fingers deep in the see-through bag
remember when you reached beneath and cupped it in your hand?
who would have thought that guitar bridges could span such distance?
now I know that Blake's fourteener wasn't just a conker
I can listen to Tom Waits' Orphans go with the flow without counting
but dreams still scrape my stubble the harsh translation issues
stir with a big knob of mascarpone & grated nuts
woke me in simmered sweat at three in the frozen morning
also known as physics
Régine Crespin sings the six summer songs by Berlioz
hours or years before we all become the ghosts of roses
tell me where you want to go the unknown island
it's a turning off the A14
some charts are just a broad expanse of blue with meticulous legends
depths are in metres & all bearings are true
the Krewe of Endymion wasted hours
throwing sugar at the folk of New Orleans
before ducking out of the rain for soul food:
a piece written over the chord changes of another
is still a contrafact many of the networks evolved
in the brain are late music the colour of dark red wine
Norfolk January 2007