On these top-heavy mood swing, moonshine days between the two best seasons of the four we’ve (allegedly) been getting for our annual ration since diaries and calendars and weathermen got invented, I peel off up into the sky and stay put for days, weeks, months on end.
Occasionally (con)descending for quarts of blue milk, chestnut maran eggs by the dozen, nuts for the pestle and mortar and a shoulder of vodka for the sunset oblivions that only I get to absorb. Like a private relational sponge dynamic between God, The European Minister for Seasons and I.
At some point, I watch re-runs of The King & I.
This triumvirate communicates using astral projection somewhere over Europol’s Eisenhowerlaan thunderstruck granite modernist slab in The Hague. That giant Skinner Box with slivers of Alcatraz loneliness. Who un-thunk that?
For refined posture and vivacious mazy-curve intricacies of the Brutalist gait, look away. Cross the Atlantic. Try Watergate. Her graduating balcony tensors will lower even Norman Foster’s emo-design defences.
Twenty St Mary Axe. Not in my eye-line. But now he’s got his mitts on Old Trafford. Even the thought of it totally screws up my belle view. As Christ is my Saviour. Norm: do me a favour.
Astral projecting myself is exhausting and makes me grind my teeth so we try to nurture rarity. No need to keep it on the DL. That’s a given when you sub-atomically self-propel.
Autumn died in the British inner cities at around two-thousand five. That’s when the blocks began to rise higher than satellites, and you need fallen leaves for Autumn to stamp her lustre-of-gold blossom on the day-to-day. Manchester built urban villages on top of all the parks. Somewhere, I conjure up a cemetery for trees where long lines of willow headstones commemorate Beech, Elm and Oak. Yew looks on like he got there first. You wouldn’t fancy being a pallbearer for those fuckers.
Do you ever consider the array of components that function as the coordinates of any given space?
Twenty years later, three seasons remaining, like I said earlier, if you were paying attention not just gliding through my art like an episode of Neighbours, the full-moon nativity divide between Spring and Summer is, for the writer, a convectional groundswell of boom-bust sun and cloud endeavours.
The bluest of rivers. The dilation of pupils in eyes.
The full-term pregnant silence of the orchestra. Woodwind and brass at the ready. Just waiting on the conductor who appears to be fiddling with her lapels backstage.
Hence feeding energy to the forthcoming rage.
Easter and giant town-long shadows. From up here. Stall seats for Three Mile Island.
I highrise. The committed witness. Night steals.
And the sky peals.
….
gK
