Playlist: February 2019

As I was a permanent client of stars, awaiting that moment before contract to fold back, edge of the page that was prior to birth. The sky is that page where everything saucy happens. If I feel ‘switched on’ it’s in fear of the light, scraping cutlery together to start fires with little intention of correct extinguishing. This is just an indulgent way of saying ‘fuck you’ to the spinney where I dropped a whole packet of sour cherry sweets that day after school with the song in my head. ‘Fuck you’ to the trees, like they own me forever. As I was defined by the willow I cried by, circa 2009. You only say ‘fuck you’, truly, to these sorts of vicarious parents, dragging their entrails along the water. They come in plurals; they have to eat each other just to exist. Something Eileen Myles says of a person, they can’t fully flourish till the mother tree falls. What was the one I saw by the golf course, Maybole, spear of the monument? Granite is war is radiation.

Someone replaced their tongue with a leaf of mint. They spoke in sprigs.

Things written in lieu of a nature poem:

  • A letter to washing machines all over the world
  • The lyrics to ‘Florida Kilos’
  • A list of snoring faces
  • Imitations of archived Twitter
  • Requiem for a useless wedding
  • Things I once wanted from the Argos catalogue
  • An inventory of much-despised artificial flavours
  • Amnesia’s archive of MySpace bulletins
  • Plagiarised ‘Daffodils’
  • Impressions of Shoreditch
  • An amateur walkthrough to ‘Star Light Zone: Act 3’
  • Homage to retro screensavers
  • Flyers for drugs
  • Hieroglyphs of ring-collecting sound effects
  • Many novelisable addictions
  • Screeds of abrasive html
  • Reasons why X should get paid more
  • Moderate to good assortment of sexual confessions

___The night in the casino felt like gold was butter, gold bars of the house we were chipping apart from the ingot. We hadn’t spoken in a very long time, so it seemed, galaxies of the year had passed already. In a land where I only reserve soft lyrics, hoard Milky Ways, know nothing of your suffering in that time except what you showed.

Taxidermic language, wrapping up the undead for the accidental. Reels of my body, scented magnolia layers beneath. ‘As for love’, Clarice says, ‘they weren’t in love, of course’. This is ‘The Message’.

Off the train the air was clear, smelled manicured. Click of the tape deck. He scorns me at the checkout, 2:am, buying my lightbulb. I could not live through the night without light. Haggard in Tesco blue he called me a moth and bared his teeth; I smiled and stepped into temperate February. Just flick the switch before you leave, that’s all. I’ll be a while, it’s no use waiting. My 1:09 Transpennine got stuck at Bellshill for hours and hours. I drank with a woman who did not know my name, as I lacked hers; we laughed at the pensioner commentaries, ordered drinks. We learned so much about trains in that time. I arrived back in the grey and longed for LED, Cornish horizons, the shape of his jaw like the edge of a country I might not visit.  

It seemed impossible that I would ever fall asleep again. Veers of the wrist[?]

 

My sick heart is a small blue swollen ball. 

In the novel I read there were always these nocturnal women, pacing around in foreign cities. They stayed in hotel rooms but could not last the night, they would slip softly into Parisian spring and trail the streets. It was often Paris, which rose in the back of my mind like something unfinished. It needed rendering. All I remembered was the razoring cold, the leers of buildings, needing to piss for hours and hours. The taste of cow’s milk, morning ache. Sometimes fancying the accordion song, impossible to exorcise.

[ The wreck contained mustard and scarlet, teal and rose.
We wriggled a little. Missed a bit. ]

John Hall: ‘Can’t you see why I couldn’t be doing anything else?’

Tracing such palimpsests of light, we ask of the week a question. Will you stay this mild forever? Little interlude, it’s okay to feel nice for a while. That’s what he said, this is nice. The daffodils are out. Kneading the dough of a belly, I over-sleep each day until the hollows of my eyes smooth into cream. Life is a cheeky rose. Perhaps no one is in love as James on his album. Picture him at the window, clipping the extraneous stems from various houseplants, watching the syrup drip onto the leaves. Think of this synthwise. Maybe that is a loneliness, so absolute in your feeling. Imagine him paring his Joycean fingernails, the man at the window whose name was Blake with a kytten for history. There was nothing so bright as that. You could not say, hailing it, kytten, kytten! It was extra literary. It was sooo much of everything before even alive, hey.

__The kytten was made of milk. It was bound to leak out someday.

We’ve not had a chance at everything yet. We’ve burned it all! At dawn we drank algorithms and the well-bronzed man still kissing away on the fire escape. As if all of this happened, expensive drams and learning the words for variable clouds. We enter the storage facility. Your da, your da, your da sells—That bit where Don Draper gets all misty-eyed over Hershey’s. At the end I’m crumbling a little white cookie, Karen is wailing the way she feels, the inward razoring, and it’s all I can do to remember the bees.

[…]

Dyeing my hair with fresh cherries, yayo yayo, yeah they say it’s excess to do this again. She runs the punnet under a cold tap, rubs them clean with her fingers then scrunches them, crushes them luxuriously over my scalp till it all runs down and I’m shining again. There’s a baby at the back of my eye that screams and screams, maybe I pretend I don’t know her. The cherry girl in the bar was trapped in a basket. Lana says nobody dies in Miami! I remember the harsh sunsets of your Playstation 2, smashing ourselves into several pixelated seas. Rank best to worst our beliefs, this night that got away again. We looked up the cheats and looked into the future, pressed x’s and triangles together. I mixed up my consoles, remembering it. A hook, a hook.

It took me six months to write and then I scrunched that mess back into a planet!

Notes from my diary:

Today I’m heading south to learn about trees
I could easily sit in a spoons and weep. 

Goddamn stars what am I supposed to owe you! Held sequins in palm to insufflate, insitu. There was so much oil in my salad it looked unethical. Walking through the park at night, say this is balmy, so warm for the season but I don’t want to say unseasonable, and so feel like the narrator of another bored and beautiful New York novel. Don’t like the tonic in gin. Pay without debit; display songs in nested form. There are so many themes up my sleeve! Leave your key at front desk, darling I’m trying to reach it; white lines on the road wherever the silkworms—

~

Aldous Harding — The Barrel

Julia Holter — Les Jeux to You

Weyes Blood — Andromeda

Todd Rundgren — I Saw The Light

Judee Sill — Enchanted Sky Machines

hand habits — placeholder

Red House Painters — Golden

Big Thief — UFOF

Tiny Ruins — Cold Enough to Climb

Karen Dalton — Katie Cruel

Arthur Russell — Not Checking Up

The Tammys — His Actions Speak Louder than Words

 

 

Playlist: July 2018

IMG_2559.JPG

This month first bloomed in the green-gold fairgrounds of sleepless nights, twinned in a week of pre-delirium. We stood in a packed sports bar and watched three screens simultaneously, everyone’s face a spectacle of something other that was going on beyond offsides and angles and penalties. Indulgent love of epi-bro culture. Finding that tiny jubilance inside you. Running round with the lights off, spouting catch phrases that kill and kill. I say the same name again and again, without meaning to. Am I winning.

Closing time and proximate whisky. What swills and feels wavy, later, at the top of the street. I hold ice in my gums for the numbing. 

Imagine a toothache so rich in pain it was like cradling some other entity within yourself.

So the paths seemed windier than usual and trailing my way into whatever would happen and the ascent and the lights that seemed stranger. Cradle your toothache into some kind of coda, a pause that leads to return. The portholes of naproxen, dihydrocodeine, paracetamol, ibuprofen. Appetite collapses and the mouth is a metallic pool of pain. Send one thing away to endure. Circle around, forget about yourself. Forget your body. Learn to make of my carpet a turquoise pool, our belligerent drift which quickens to pulse. I lay very still and bit my lip. Learn not to cry when people are kind, learn to accept gesture in itself. Walk in the back roads of Finnieston on some green afternoon, everything lush and wilted with rain.

So it warms again.

Salt rinses make me sad for the sea.

These train rides between cities and the way the light looks at eight of an evening in late July. The soft yellow gold of fields to be harvested, trails of meadow lines read as braille. We talk intermittently. I close my eyes to a faint remainder of presence. It is difficult to remember what’s happened, bundling into a part song of falling. Walk back along the Clyde, swallow a letdown that ricochets through all buried traits, read as you walk. Walk as you read. Chance encounters that mean things.

To be sent home early, to feel over-brimming with all this salty, incorrigible water. Cancer season comes to an end.

I say whatever weird thing pops into my head. This is the way we are now. It is light at six in the morning, we sit at the table among fag paraphernalia and sketch each other’s souls. So ever to read glitches between us in negative space. I walk home alone and the daylight tastes so beautiful and I am so dizzy from twice cheating the diurnal within the same week. When we message, we use only the choicest emojis. Wouldn’t you like a vial of mercury?

I told him I was seeing. I was seeing.

My head in my throat, forehead to forehead. Is it the sweat, the seemingly interminable beats? The club is like the cabin of a ship, sloshing with heat and bodies. I spill out in cold night. I write this looking at the rain outside, which is utterly vertical and soft, drooping the branches of trees I can’t name. The sky is a greyish egg white, clearer towards centre. It matches my mood quite perfectly. I fear it will melt.

The colours in the takeaway were ravishing, erratic. I could not take my eyes off the shreds of meat. The singular tomato.

The rain was welcome. It gushed bright cold to my skin as I peddled, the canal adjacent to my trail. Catching my breath on the hot chest feeling, which later would become a pang, a harp string pulled too taut. A minor chord that needed to settle. It takes awhile to settle into your own body, to learn its game. The rain was good, the rain was silver and dazzled the leaves. I cycled to Lock 31 and back again twice in a week. I wanted to compare each experience. The fact was a shift in my flesh, a chorus of moving blood and water.

My sweaty hair smelled of the sea. I like that the seagulls leave when it rains.

Maggie Nelson writes: ‘How many ways are there / to get saturated in another’s mind?’ & I wonder. She is writing about a canal too, but really she is writing about desire. Canals don’t flow though; canals are relatively static. Something of undercurrent draws them along?

The pale sweet scent of coconut oil and misplaced nostalgia.

The Forth & Clyde Canal is so unlike the Clyde, this great wide luminously masculine river. When the song came on and I thought of the boy who drowned. I like to look at the lights on the Clyde at night, feel quite dark in myself and proximate to history. Feel everything dimming. Feel muscular for merely being there.

But then once I saw the Clyde in the afternoon, it was buttermilk.

Maryhill becomes a sort of fairyland, the unseen space around the canal, the outcrops of houses blending into Anniesland. I stick to the line, the gravel, the pace. Trust in my breath. Clusters of teenage girls pass by on their mobiles.

Sometimes I hallucinate the phone ring of my childhood home.

Keep sleeping in and savouring escape. The trick is to get to bed before five. To keep yourself stable.

The weeks slip away like vulnerable sand flats.

I drink things that are orange and icy and strong. I try to recall that hullabaloo of pain. A wedge of it bright and red.

Drawing is a warm sweet vortex where I drag myself deep into greens and blues.

Layering long stints of techno over the same routes. It gets heavier. I walk into the headlights of cars without meaning to. They keep playing Darude’s ‘Sandstorm’ in Byres Road Tesco, the inchoate vertigo of a broken decade. Later I dream the stores were empty as they were in the snow days. Water everywhere, sloshing the hours and ankles, not a drop to drink. Remember when everything caught glitches, sounded through the tinniness of a Motorola phone, those metallic wee speakers, resounded twice over on the plexiglass of a bus stop?

Everyone’s cold suburbia closes. You just shut the skylight, ignore the rain.

When you are away I sort of half live in the other place, but then already between myself.

Is it the circles below my eyes, below ugly tungsten light? The intimate work of a visceral distraction? Too many bowls of soft cereal?

Craving the expanse of the sea, releasing my cuts, wanna lose all time + memory.

Salt rinse, salt rinse; salt and cloves.

Find a note on someone’s jotter at work: get cunt fae spar. It will take a while to parse this. Fae spar get cunt, cunt spar get fae. Ye olde spar will get yae. Forget the star. 

There is a fight and a fire and over and over I write things like, gratitude, gratitude. Plug sockets sparking. 

Resist the tinny in the fridge. Do magick. I think maybe I am tired and scared of the present. The piano sounded lovely. With my window open, I could hear someone warming the keys. Notes for a genuine summer, notes for a situation. Then breathe. Bryan Ferry is sound-checking from the bandstand, you can hear the distant, phasing groan. It is almost August. 

 

*

 

Death Grips – Black Paint

03 Greedo – Jealous

Cold Cave – You & Me & Infinity

Fred Thomas – Good Times Are Gone Again

The Twilight Sad – I/m Not Here [Missing Face]

Hand Habits – Book on How to Change

Pavement – Harness Your Hopes

Mush – Luxury Animals

Black Marble – A Great Design

Sun June – Discotecque

Emily Isherwood – Calibrate

Hana Vu – Crying on the Subway

Laurel Halo – Sunlight on the Faded

RF Shannon – Jaguar Palace

Amen Dunes – Lonely Richard

Lucretia Dalt – Edge

Ride – Chrome Waves

Oneohtrix Point Never – Monody

Gang Gang Dance – Lotus

Beach House – Black Car

Womensaid – Magick!

Wooden Shjips – Eclipse

Phoebe Bridges – The Gold (Manchester Orchestra cover)

Galaxie 500 – Tugboat

Judee Sill – Lopin’ Along Thru The Cosmos

Aphex Twin – aisatsana [102]

Playlist: June 2018

IMG_1965

IMG_1466

IMG_1980

IMG_1606

 

These bias-cut days of diagonal action, mostly slow rise and decline, drift into restless though feathery sleep. ‘The dreamer in his corner wrote off the world in a detailed daydream that destroyed, one by one, all the objects in the world’. So goes Bachelard and my own sense of crawling, hovering, in the cracks between things. Letters, cups of tea, cutlery, brushes and pens, awakenings. I worry that making a fantasy means reality won’t happen. You can spend too much in your dreams. I pay my debts in daily wandering, lifting plates and cracking hard metal off the grinder to fill up the cylinder with further coffee. Speak standard grade French for ebullient tourists. A, petit pois! What was it he said? A vast divergence between work and vocation. What splits in you and hurts evermore like a skelf. I’m waiting at the bar for a check, looking miserable because elsewhere in my head.

The heat brings fights to the park. I seem unable to read in daylight.

Caffeine dissolves all sticky platitudes of self-surrendering, the negative web. Objects I love become loss, so I stop. Pull out the game. Everyone I know seems to be moving away. There are these Instagrammed images of shifting reality. I ‘like’ them as if to say…

So maybe I go home but not really. So maybe in my father’s car, passing the house I grew up in which now has a shiny white 4×4 in the driveway. There is a dj with the same name as a boy from my school who wore ill-fitting boots. Remember I told him I was pregnant with triplets. I know every road and house in this town. Nothing alters on the virtual maps.

Two miles south. There is this playground in the forest, pine-built tunnels that lead through the treetops. I shimmy my way through child spaces, accessing the world from a miniature angle. I chew away low-level anxiety. We sit in the park, rolling buttercup stems between our fingers. Think in yellow, and have no thorns to distance me. There is so much to discuss but this chat is symbolic only; mostly between, mostly hungry. I cycle around Govan in aimless circles, prolonging the river with industry. People sit on walls outside their houses, but they are not talking or rolling tobacco or playing chess.

Half of this month is a blue-dark nothing. No difference between eve and day but shades of blue. 4am my friend, our twilight spirals. I’m aching.

I spend a weekend in Munich and meet the illustrious Robert Macfarlane, who wears a mushroom pin badge and enthuses on Sebald. The Bavarian meadows are everything. I write condensed sentences in my notebook, sometimes unsure of source: ‘The painting asks the viewer to prefer shadows to sun’, ‘The brain’s sweet opening to calm and green’. I am travel tired, pleasantly so, and involuntary naps overlay with words—so images stir around me, lift from the page new worlds. I take photographs to mark a certain summer. Foxgloves, cash machines, the margarine tree; gorge of solstice which gives into poems.

We share wine outside. I lace my sangrias with a bottle of port, you’d call it darkling sunset, but not a good taste. How often this month have you woken to fog in your head?

Black-and-white plate of burnt kale.

Is our depression competing? Compression.

Admissions of sickness, 39 likes, mustang. He only smokes when drinking.

Maybe we don’t need sleep at all!

What lore of virtual archipelagos? I think of each chat log itself as an island.

My brother came home on the last day of May. Now off to Israel he leaves in our flat a blue bag of avocados, three fillets of salmon which rot in the fridge.

Sometimes time does me a favour. The way roses look at four in the morning, gilded with lamp light against husky sky, a faint azure. The hazy look of Lana roses, a vintage filter in always already.

Screen Shot 2018-06-29 at 15.04.07.png

The tenements were blood meridian. Sun moving west.

Scrunch salt to make curls in my hair. Post-chlorine shower feeling. Involuntary.

Wake to your messages, drop more before sleep. Two blue ticks. See everyone and then again everyone leaving. Homesick for dialect, yelling haneck. A mosher at heart requires eyeliner always. I keep some old stone beneath my pillow.

The lines around your eyes, a ring for every hour not slept.

Fall into chorus of gulls and whispered recordings. All of my gross human narcissism.

A birthday. Rose dress and fishnets, refusal of dancing. Middle-name. Tanqueray forever.

I resolve to make new

Slim readings, okay so I swore and did not cry because I’m saving my hot bright tears for July. Cute motivational pastel skies. Line after line being temporary.

There’s a song but I just want everyone glowing around me.

When they played ‘Keep Yourself Warm’ in Sleazy’s.

I would look up, intermittently, through a canopy of light-filled leaves. I’m sorry.

As if nothing happened, / I’m so busy, I’m so busy.

When it burned down we were in the street, all interlocked, we could see the embers. Blue and red. Helicopters overhead and my heart in my throat, something lisping the skin of my ribs.

The comedown just happens. I’m not the only one who’s numb.

Invitations to the Catty all weekend.

Work a whirlwind of smiles and graduations. Bottles of prosecco forgotten and balloons that go missing in minor scandal. I try to be better. Accessing all these families. There’s heat and light and a barbecue; ‘Some Velvet Morning’ dragging the scene to its sunburned, surreal conclusion.

Deleuze for the Desperate makes me wanna visit Devon.

Word of the month is ‘catatonic’.

How lucky we’ve been with this weather!

I hope something pure happens, softens inside me. Precarious mentality preserved in blue.

Little sweet, cycloramic tweeting.

After that article, feeling wholly grateful for my vision. I mean she had scars on her irises.

Does anyone ever want pineapple juice?

Slimmer now, reflection in coffee shop windows then not. Near tears on the phone. It’s mostly viral, the body’s bright omens. Everything revolves or resolves around you.

An hour a day I actually feel adult.

Calum does my tarot again and this time there are mermaids, mountains, a perfect circle.

Rodefer, Rodefer, Rodefer:

‘Breeze, trembling trees, the night, the stars. And there you are,
      in a manner of speaking.’

Infinite ugly gas bills from winter.

Disclosing my name as if to say, the end is near. Everyone lovely is reading Remainder. So talk of football and residuals, the free cappuccinos. A system.

‘You two look intimidatingly cool.’

I start painting again but find it hard to mix colour. I want the authentic, luminous lime. There will be a triangle off-centre in the heart of this landscape. Is it even a landscape.

Bike through gushing rain to get back to the present. We dwell awhile in the darker mezzanine, listening to the passing trains, the motorway traffic like hard waves sloshed against a sea wall.

My excuse is, this is all just sketching.

Better for energy, blessedness! A very old episode of Grand Designs.

Somebody somewhere is square-going a seagull while you read this.

Jazz gigs & taxis.

Fear of swallowing moss is utterly irrational, totally a Virgo thing. Intelligent attention.

She is likely to put on a facade of indifference.

Feel bad as ever for bailing.

Slather myself in factor 50, go out to embrace the evening. It’s half past three and I wear white cotton, 30 degrees washed and then a whole new 30 degree heat. Times the right way you make ninety, then three, the year of my birth. Somehow survived a quarter century.

I drink black coffee and watch seven swans moving towards me slowly.

Back on the west coast, I want Lee Harwood to describe the sea. Thin haze of blue Arran and my childhood dreams.

Later.

Even managed to change the sheets. The electricians came without warning.

Late.

Walk 20k steps for the sake of a stranding. June is all over me.

Skewed in a sunburst pleat, I wear less and contain my reactions.

Lately. 

Light and luxury.

 

Screen Shot 2018-06-20 at 02.19.34.png

* * *

Sharon Van Etten – For You

Kathryn Joseph – From When I Wake the Want Is

Fiona Apple – Paper Bag

Cat Power – Lost Someone

The Weather Station – Free

The Innocence Mission – Bright as Yellow

Frightened Rabbit – Nitrous Gas

Feng Suave – Honey, There’s No Time

Devendra Banhart – Your Fine Petting Duck

Lou Reed – Coney Island Baby

Bright Eyes – June on the West Coast

The National – About Today

Parquet Courts – Before the Water Gets Too High

Man of Moon – The Road

Rolling Blackouts Coastal Fever – French Press

Ryan Adams – Come Pick Me Up

Tom Petty – It’ll All Work Out

Low – Just Make It Stop

The Jesus and Mary Chain – Sometimes Always

Aïsha Devi – Light Luxury

Vessels – 4AM

Ross From Friends – Project Cybersy

Prurient – Christ Among the Broken Glass

Oneohtrix Point Never – Toys 2

Mazzy Star – Still

Snail Mail – Thinning

There Will Be Fireworks – Foreign Thoughts

Damien Jurado – Ohio

A. Wesley Chung – Neon Coast

Erin Rae & the Meanwhiles – Clean Slate

Gillian Welch – I Dreamed a Highway

Playlist: February 2018

IMG_9667IMG_9690IMG_9668

The birds in the garden have been keeping me up again. Sleep slides in and out of the dark hour, for which I’ve been hoarding the lights in my room for a sunrise. I’m not very good at putting on records; they always jump at the wrong bit, glitching backwards. When you wake up because the moonlight is too bright. It is a question of paying attention. It is a question of living quiet. I wish I could sleep like you.

Spent a few days waiting on trains late into the night or the afternoon. My fingers making a conspiracy of amethyst, mottled with cold. There’s a little glass case you can stand in, twirling your body to get the light to switch on again. I’ve got my comforting songs pressed into my headphones. Funny things happen in my chest when I hear them. Sometimes it’s a release, other times it’s like you can see all the filaments of your blood and sinew twist and sprawl like delicate vines. It feels hot and temporary. I flicker through bad thoughts about what might happen to the people I love. I flicker through good thoughts about what we can do with the summer. It seems so distant.

Sometimes I fall literally into bed; it’s like someone is dropping me.

There are moments I pull very close. There are places where everyone is here at once. There are places where it’s just us and it’s finally warm and my mouth tastes of dark fruit cider and other people’s cigarettes I didn’t want in the first place. The curtains are always closed.

I keep thinking about how there are takeaway shops in the southside named after glistering techno bands and wondering what came before. In my head it is always the music, but then maybe that is something Leonard Cohen said, or didn’t. No, what was it, we are ugly / but we have the music. These shops look like dollhouse shops with all the tools and objects miniatured, but maybe this is just an effect of where I’m standing from across the street, short-sighted. I went out dressed in gingham shorts and other inappropriate quantities of yellow. To have music you sort of have to walk a bit more; you have to let rhythm and melody drop memory with muscle. I once said, leaving a party, I have to make tracks and he thought I meant laying down records. But in a way it is all just recording. When do we click off? Skip between beats.

There are signs of spring. I say this as it starts to snow. I mean a few days ago I could see buds on the trees, little yellow flowers. What happens now? Do they retreat inwards? I picture them shivering within precious membranes, cocoons, algorithms of promise interrupted. It’s okay, I’ll be buying less of these indulgent Lindt eggs from the Tesco round the corner. I’ll thin out eventually. Easter will come too early this year. Winter keeps us in its arms forever, shivering because like those buds we are children. Some people burst through. I admire the impulse. It’s like what, dancing naked in the snow. I used to listen to Sonic Youth when I was angry, whacking objects off dressers, now I close my eyes and try to visualise the colour blue. I get about as close as turquoise before everything melts to bliss. That would be the ideal effect. There’s something very beautiful and suggestive about the word lagoon. Is there a pill for this?

Recently I’ve been rediscovering canals. You see it’s actually been sunny. You have to walk along the motorway, cross several spaghetti roads to get over to the Phoenix Flowers—these sort of peculiar, half-lovely windmill structures. Then an underpass and up some steps. I follow a band of miscreant hipsters. A sign saying Urban Oasis. The canal looks good when the sun hits. I mean it looks sharp and glassy and properly blue. The trees glow ochre in the sun; the way they have faded all through winter seems refreshing now instead of exhausting. In a few months this should all be green. There’s still a fragility. Very little litter. You can see the stadium and the industrial buildings, warehouses and garages and houses. Everything over there gleams rust in the sun. I listen for whistles or song but the air is only as close as my headphones. I’m listening to The Kinks Are the Village Green Preservation Society, remembering odd passages from Cider with Rosie and feeling regret for nights I could’ve made longer with more wholesome spirits. Waking up to bright clusters of strawberry jam on bread like blood on the sheets.

Nothing floats by on the canal, though there are boats tied at Applecross and then a few bottles bobbing their dark viridian messages. I write letters to friends in England, emails to friends in America.

Somewhere down the line, where does all this become ASCII?

I write an inordinate quantity of poetry about bruises and flowers and passing time. The year has stepped up its bicycle gear and I wish my bike was in order so I could fly down the Clyde like Brendan and May in Ruby/Sapphire. Most mornings are filled with flash fiction and occasional bouts of panic. I finish draft ten of an important application.

Daffodils on the kitchen table bloom overnight, just like that. They are marvellously, gorgeously yellow. I feel no shame in showering adjectives.

I dream a lot about the sea. Except we don’t reach it. Mostly it is a question of negotiating cliffs to find safe accommodation. I buy family-sized bags of crisps just for the taste of salt, then feel awful afterwards. This is probably normal.

I am drawn to a piece of teal-coloured scaffolding mesh that resembles a streak of kelp on the street.

It feels good to make coffees and twirl around tables. It feels good to be serving, to eke out a few hours on other people’s time. Sometimes I look forward to a long, long waitress’s summer. Sunlight, sparkling lager and indefinite afterparties. Reams of time to commit to writing in lieu of sleep. We hover at table six and salvage lost noughties culture, folding paper napkins to crisp blue lines. If everything was this chiasmic, easily given to compost.

Today’s Oblique Strategy pops up on my Twitter timeline: Make something implied more definite. Last year I got Tinder but ended up using it mostly to talk about Brian Eno to at least two strangers. I feel like I understand lust less; it is like clustering the silent hours with extra ambience. This is not necessarily a bad thing. The snow outside my window right now is pretty pathetic. People are shaving the skin off clouds. It is really happening; the gaps are appearing. Sometime early nineties, year of the Rooster, hole in the ozone layer.

Being a sucker for charm, longing for the twilight of virtual swamplands where it is possible to cry again. An effect of atmospheric toxins. This is a slow-burner, just slip it on and trust me. You can see through the nacreous membranes, someone else’s confected scrolls of sugar, confession, snow.

~

Hookworms – Ullswater

Robert Rental, Thomas Leer – Day Breaks, Night Heals

Beth Orton, Four Tet – Carmella (Four Tet remix)

Kiasmos – Blurred (Bonobo remix)

Beach House – Lemon Glow

Agony – Beach Fossils

The Orielles – Old Stuff, New Glass

Japanese Breakfast – Soft Sounds from Another Planet

Martha Ffion – Baltimore

Cloud – Happer’s Laugh

Sun Kil Moon – Among the Leaves

Suuns – Make It Real

Brian Jonestown Massacre – Throbbing Gristle

Iceage – Catch It

Marnie – Lost Maps

King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard – The Lost Oasis

Neroche – Sycamore Trees

Grouper – Vapor Trails

Fieldhead – How Much I Love the Sea

Arthur Russell – Arm Around You

Mazzy Star – Five String Serenade

Yo La Tengo – Nowhere Near

There Will Be Fireworks – South Street

Playlist: January 2018

IMG_8678IMG_8320

This is a month of 144 songs.

Already they are flogging chocolates in Tesco’s. I am ill-prepared for the purples and yellows, the curved edges of mass chocolate which we were taught as best for exam preparation. Reading old Moodle documents where we were wished a good Easter with lots of curved chocolate. The world curves as it splits. No really. Is this just trick synecdoche? The gaussian, milky worlds. I dwell in the sugary absent weakness. Bedtime cocoa. Night after night dissolves into day. Clung to all these ornamentals, my fragile sinuses burning well. I’ll go all the way through the night for this, the not-knowing and the implicit—which is it it it. 

You see there are several photographs in which it is shown that we have a thing that makes sense, or doesn’t. My fingers reach for the delicate foil, but I am frightened to unwrap what might perish in the light.

I’ll talk to you about fast food for hours if you like. No, there is an art to dwelling in front of elevators to avoid going up or down. We part in limbo again, the ice still clung but I’m not slipping this time. There’s a sense in which the sky is a tease. How could that blue come out of the grey? It is like watching some sick person acquire their first blush for months—so you might pull on that, luring them from their introversion. O blue sky, O blue day. Today I will wear pale blue and twirl. We debate the sentience of ferns because I am sick of rolling dice for you. Rolling leaves, tobacco and steam. Everything around is still dead and grey. The ice in our drinks is the precise kind, expensive. Like some character in a song by Belle & Sebastian, I killed you on the sabbath. New moon burning a hole in my books, so I would scoop wisdom from the alcoholic silt and taste it. There are so many words we struggle to assemble. Like hairspray your loquaciousness sticks and I find it in the morning, crusted all over my skin. Slit. 

It’s taken too long for me to discover ‘Farewell Transmission’ and now it might well be my favourite song.

Doubling back out of habit, platitude. My phone battery externalises the melt of my soul. My god however is it six in the morning again and leaning out a balcony I pretend it’s still night. Which of us picks up a cigarette? Drawn from the navy, thickness of velvet. So many thin white bars whose measured smoulder effects inverse to the light. The duration of intimacy with dangerous presence.

Dreamt I was in England and being shown around myriad ancient houses. The verdurous remains of a Fleet Foxes song, green apples and glittering fountains. Here you are as I was in my corduroy. There is a hypothetical coach journey that draws me to you. In her many cubicles, the rich lady assembles a wealth of dresses. I wear sequins to gigs so they can pick up my trail. Funny how it all lies down, like snow. In the darkness you can know everyone, share in their sweat and heat. The bass beats a death inside of me.

Lovely, lovely, lovely.

The truth is a valley in which I dip occasionally. Best not to linger.

What is it with our renewed desire for psychedelia? Smell of dying pines? I long for the back of a van, a Nebraskan sunrise. Languid, shimmery notes which twang through the desert, tuning to all that mescaline seeping inside the cacti. Sleeping through the mad afternoons. There is a note on the fridge: William Carlos Williams dropping plums one by one through my Twitter feed. No really, it says will you take out the mouldy fruit; I could not bear to. All of our narratives resign with sincerity.

January blackens; it fills milk spores in the holes of my speakers. Drips straight into ear canals, oozes and congeals its murky secrets. The milk goes black, an aperture. It is fear or soot or the ink from a printer. How much have you spent on weighing up happiness? There is his to consider, then hers. A balance. We talk a bit about the problem of rhythm, but we are paralysed on the boat of my sofa.

Look back for old flake paint, for the topaz and green. Flash of light!

There are so many sunflower connections. Her new album (I’m picturing Oregon from a tenement window), his intentional outfit, my disposable developed (what sad and faded sunflowers they were!), a proliferation of emoji, paling bedsheets, yellow bows and cookie-huge pupils, rediscovering a hairband, that video with its dead assembly of meadows. A nice young man stares mournfully at the wilting array. The one plucked flower I held in the photo-booth, smile all red and sideways drooping. Petals of buttery yellow. Longing for symmetrical features is futile when you think of it. The Psychology of Attraction might be a good record title. Or is it akin to her perfect button nose, infinitely terrible? Undone like a blouse the clouds forget the order of day. Very photogenic. My god like why does he drink pint after sideways pint? I prefer those features slightly awry, striking, crooked. Look into abysses, the romantic state of traffic at five in the morning.

A good quick coconut shower, rinse and repeat. We keep on growing. She knows.

To live nocturnal is to cheat the impositions of ordinary living. As if I were ever going to be a glowing contributor! You know, when they used to ask, over breakfast or whatever, about my future career I’d say—I’ll learn how to blow smoke-rings, I’ll sit up in attics watching telly every day. How far from that is the present in question? THE QUESTION. Tiny daisies studded the front lawn, friends came to paint colourful ads on the walls. I’m starlit, trying to close folders to forget it.

What I am struck by is his absolute gratitude. The blueness cools, then emanates. Googling ‘good and bad feng shui’.

I properly have the chills, then I don’t. Sunshine comes out, dashes the opposite window and drips fucking genuine gold on my hip flask, glasses, sequin dress. What a marvel! We buy cups of tea and I drift along Kelvin Way lingering in the sparkly feeling. Later, as in normal days, I brush my teeth while simultaneously reading James Schuyler and occasionally catching my ridiculousness in the mirror. Folding red book betwixt fingers. It’s like forgetting to spell, that brief glitch where you see yourself wrongly. But he writes so well about sunlight and flowers and waking up to the sense of everything being around you. How could I resist that, melting into this clean teeth feeling. I fill myself with words, waiting for the kettle to boil.

So a wee mention in Dazed and Confused, eh? I did cartwheels in the restaurant and bounced my way home.

A good friend helps you figure out your feelings. It’s not as simple as taking a box of pick’n’mix and sorting it all by colour. Remember the last day of school, second year, talking to your crush about orange skittles? We agreed on a favourite and that was the first time I lied to impress or get close to a boy. It meant nothing then. I mean anyway, oranges became my favourites—everything before was soon forgotten.

Sometimes though, I still dream of red. He’d clack the streets on his skateboard home.

When doing the morning rounds, laying out cutlery, I feel so lucky. Where has this feeling come from? I don’t deserve the good rush from coffee, or the way my hair sits right the first day after washing. Is this a temporary clawing out of the void? An American asks, is that your natural hair colour, or do you ENHANCE it? My darling, everything must be a certain enhancing. She does not tip. She leaves her glasses, wiry black frames, but we cannot find them.

My mother’s SAD lamp does wonders for everything.

We are all in our bodies, separate but not. It is his flat and he is drifting. I catch him saying, to no-one: I love falling asleep in a room full of friends, you feel so safe. This is a truism I have carried and nourished since childhood sleepovers, though it’s been so long. In lieu of sleeping bags, we wrap ourselves now in serotonin enhancements. Sparkle and chat and videos.

The time is out of joint, or maybe no longer matters. They are selling Easter chocolates already in Tesco’s. No room for January discount vegetables, or the mad dieting schemes of the rich and useless. I take miles into distance, darkness after work. Every half hour another album. They closed the bar early. Do we talk about ‘our generation’ too much? How he hates the word ‘epoch’. 

There are these messages I receive in the dead of night. Friends from abroad or away. The beautiful and ever unexpected. 

Did you know there are poets who actually write about happiness? I am very glad. Jack Underwood in love and lifting his snail to safety.

Sometimes I miss you like I miss the sea in The Wind Waker. You’re there and you’re everywhere but are you really? There is all this cell-shaded feeling and the sense of whirlpools ahead. Maybe that in itself is the dream, the journey and stirring and searching for clues. There are two, the green and the blue. Tactics: look above, be only shallow.

It is not the same green as a bottle of Gordon’s. It is fake plastic green, these intimations of asphalt. Where you have crossed and skinned and promised.

A kind of lamentable, pore-torn love; looking up football puns in crumpled papers. When I look up from the pile of folded napkins and we clock eyes. Let’s talk dissertations. Let’s talk the lightning tree on the cover which you haven’t yet opened. I found another path through a wayward January. How anyone ever did this dry I don’t know. I used to be pure and decorous really.

Now there is a mist and madness to everything. The new year beginning with vapours. Dwell in etcetera and don’t pause for effect.

Those purple foils fill up the trash. How many of us deep down can help it?

*

Ride – Lateral Alice

Moon Duo – New Dawn

Oneohtrix Point Never – Chrome Country

James Blake – If the Car Beside You Moves Ahead

Mogwai – Party in the Dark

A Perfect Circle – Disillusioned

Anna Meredith – Calion

Hannah Peel – Sunrise Through the Dusty Nebula

GoGo Penguin – Bardo

LYLO – You Have Your Father’s Eyes

Beach Fossils – Saint Ivy

Hookworms – On Leaving

Anna Burch – Asking 4 a Friend

(Sandy) Alex G – Bobby

Spinning Coin – Metronome River

Loma – Joy

Public Service Broadcasting – Turn No More

Red House Painters – Katy Song

Haley Heynderickx – Untitled God Song

Tom Petty – Wildflowers

Songs: Ohia – Farewell Transmission

Playlist: December 2017

IMG_8496IMG_8500

This month of emotional popcorn. Crack spit salt sweet. The chest heaves with illness, it is heavy and green—a surge, a burden. Nights are made for cheating time, like the bars open awful late with special license and in the swill of a glass with ice and fizz there are memories. Restoration. Working Christmas Day is like admitting your failure to comply with the nuclear family, but getting paid for it. Capitalism rewards and kills. When folk wish good cheer and you try to absorb it, like each little smile is a gift, a rare candy. Upgrade, level up. I’m swirling around the room and I could carry ten plates at once, if only the illness wasn’t muscle-wasting. Hear the symphony of all this cutlery. It’s been what, three weeks, since I’ve lifted a weight? Since I’ve twisted my limbs into trembling shapes?

A pale green glitter fingernail, brush of forever. So many moments in suspension, like looking over the banisters at what’s below and recalling every banister seen below in every moment a startle, sparkling. Length at random. The shape of his cheekbones, the imprint of angled buildings you recall walking beneath in sleep. Waking, they shudder. They are not so solid. In the dark corner of the bar we discuss what’s sexiest and I don’t know what to say, except Jonny Greenwood’s string arrangements and Yves Klein blue. Sucking gin through a straw at the thought. Maybe blue is not the sexiest colour—after all, it’s awful cold. But there is something hot about lapis lazuli, a sudden burning of sense that is like blushing except inverse, except not. When the eyes open and they are a startling blue, but who but who? The tiny golden flecks in-between.

(He plunges my wrist in buckets of ice to stop the fire, the itching. It hurts like hell, sears through nerves). Outwith is a word only used up north.

I have this memory of being at the edge of the crossroads walk in Maybole and looking out at the housing estates and every house paired off with its opposite—lights on, lights off. Kids have a sense for dead people, the names in the cemetery. In some reverie writing a story about figure skaters longing for ice, eating Weetabix at work listening to Sufjan, trying to find calm in a place of chaos. Cold of soy milk. There’s a precision to exacted, melancholy melody. What comes fully-formed. My darling. This is a month for pathological outbursts of sorrow, I should know. You can carry around the hard winter nut of endurance, crack it and let the shame ooze its sweetness. So many submissions fall back upon squirrels. There are things I cannot tell. I dream of my childhood garden, coated in snow. Snow back home was not like snow here. Maybe the salt in the air made it prettier. Here the snow is slush within seconds and the dirtiness of the city ruins it, ruins everything. We can’t have nice things. I write in my diary on the 11th December: It’s so cold my teeth hurt to breathe in. I don’t know what this means, but my teeth have been evil and I’m chewing cloves every day to feel okay.

The bar floods with water and washes the women with Chardonnay away. This pleases me somewhat. We watch the floods come in and I predict the next great plague will be locusts. I make vague calculations about the waste caused by crackers and such statistics depress me, like taking armfuls of shitting cardboard off customers, fragment snapping, each twist of a joke still worse than before. If crackers were made of glass and you had to smash them and inside each one was a Christmas fairy that could grant a wish but then the world would be covered in so many shatterings, so many spent wishes. Christmas is never that easy, but I break a glass or two simply for negligence and staring through the bar like a mirror might catch me looking. A warmth. Alien fairytales of Glasgow. Keep goodness around you. Keep up with straight spirits at ten in the morning. Cold medicine lurches the blood to effect. A curious rebellious book of bliss, thrown off course cos I hate this.

The group chats of Landfill Indie. Lad Rock. Mild and humorous light up disgust, discuss. My last gig of the year is a delightful Withered Hand show at the Glad Café. I keep bumping, fortuitously, into friends. Lying on the sofa, hacking my chest, I read Call Me By Your Name and dream of verdant Italy, all ocean blue and peach-flavoured lust. Found out some very good news vis a vis writing and the future, earned the most tips I’ve ever earned in one day and lay upon the floor of the office in sheer joy (then spent said money on a nasty gas bill).

Shrink again into the genuine. Redraft, edit, repeat. A month of meeting lovely people for the first time, catching up with old friends via Messenger while mutually we both drink in bars alone. Watching copious strangenesses across YouTube, videos of spooky houses whose internal structure makes no sense. I want to be well again, to think clearly. These landscapes of unremembered drive, this falling asleep through meals at four in the morning, yearning for normal. In sickness, revisiting the zone of waterfalls and sparse, 8-bit graphics—the ersatz pastoral of dangerous greenery. I did a podcast, read poetry beside someone whose music I love, whose music is a part of my past, a breezeblock heart. Recall winter evenings drinking at the old racecourse, singing ‘Poke’ to protect ourselves from the cold: Poke at my iris / Why can’t I cry about this. Little things build up strength for the soul. Finished The Wire in a daze of admiration. The days cut short, right to the clip of the solstice. Stasis in darkness (O Plath, how sometimes insomniac I return to you). Visited the Shire for 24 hours, trying to read a lot, read the past, falling through the uncanny narrative parallels of Nicholas Royle in veering through sleep, tucked up like a tootsie roll in the dark room of warmth and dark dreams. Keep saying, I’m so sorry. Sometimes reality has a weight you can’t manage. Reply to messages. Walk into sunlight, find pools of it dripping gold over water and cry rapturous over the sheer fact of it. Toothache brings you to presence again. Get annoyed by action, turn off the goddamn movie.

Douse in whisky. Amberous painkiller. Happy hardcore at the back of Christmas Day, sitting at marble tables with chipped edges and focusing on the sheer ascendence to what comes next. She swings her hair around like a blaze of ashes. My legs are mottled with bluebottle bruises. A customer takes one look at me and says “you need to get a sun-bed, that’ll fix you up nice and good”. Another says I am two shades of red. I am trying to find a word for the part of the day that’s like a whole chunk of afternoon, two hours of white light as stripped and boring as sitting in offices doing nothing. But that’s not necessarily the condition for existing, but how it feels anyway, trying to survive the hours in the cold of a room in the cold of a body. Rib rattling. How nice to see a small gold glint in the crest of the collarbones under the light. A trove of myriad empty cans, glinting metallic when you leave the flat and it is all of a whiteout not quite, not quite. The silver takes its self-denial, stealing pieces of light where it shouldn’t. I’m blinded on the walk, inappropriately euphoric in the blistering white, the sunlight. Pick up a slim volume, think of milk chocolate I’ll probably eat. The suspension between us. Something of joy and hibernation later, waking up sore-limbed to cigarette hair and the price of a sonnet. How many names for a sky powder blue? I miss you. I make mix-tapes. I’ll be misty-eyed for Tigermilk and then again keep awake with Death Grips.

Somebody give me a new skin; it’s the last day of the year and I’m already thinking of a dark room of startled lavender, smell of fresh-cut oranges, the premise of yesterday as already gorged on tomorrow. There is a freshness, a refreshing. A browser caught between worlds, time-zones; intercontinental weather that makes no sense. I feel better today, it’s my body’s promise.

~

The Verve – Star Sail

Ride – Pulsar

Four Tet – Daughter

GoGoPenguin – Raven

The Brian Jonestown Massacre – Fact 67

Ash – Shining Light

Coma Cinema – Loss Memory

The Velvet Underground – Stephanie Says

Slowdive – When the Sun Hits

Protomartyr – A Private Understanding

Bright Eyes – The Movement of a Hand

Belle & Sebastian – Write About Love

Alex Cameron feat. Angel Olsen – Stranger’s Kiss

Los Campesinos! – The Sea is a Good Place to Think of the Future

DOPE LEMON – Marinade

Princess Nokia – Goth Kid

SZA – Drew Barrymore

Fred Thomas – Mallwalkers

Bloc Party – So Here We Are

Sufjan Stevens – Tonya Harding

Frightened Rabbit – It’s Christmas So We’ll Stop

Playlist: September 2017

IMG_6411

  📀🍂💋

Late night listening to the sound of the planets :::soundtrack::: Adult Sadness Vol. 2. The sky is a dark green borrowed from a pen I once had that smelt quite rotten, not unlike the algae in the Queen’s Park pond you can’t touch because it’s poison bloom. A sign tells you. Underuse of racing ink. Toy cars with ferric metal. Lungs clotted orange. Weather for ducks. Earnest shrills in the steam//screwed repression. The feathers in my window shiver in the draught and there are many fibrous villi around my ribs that stir, muscle and sinew twitching.

Maryhill is lovely in autumn, all brick and scaffold, all concrete and leaves. Struggle of unfolding, furls come slowly their upward petals turned sunward for silk in lieu of caress. Lights glimmer vague at dusk but among rust and green there are delicious marbles of red, tiny gleams. Tin cans in windows. Glass reflects this wool coat, its pale blue shape containing my body. A scratch, diskette release. Let me know what you think of winter; it’s something I suspect we’ll disagree on. Church bells ring in distances, always three minutes out of sync. 1,2,3 (!) My alarm clock feels ornamental, like the inessential flourish of an amateur artist. Precious, the ephemeral perfection of certain ~simple~ things. Sufjan singing amethysts and flowers on the table and the gathering of leaves in dry cold fingers. A honey-tinged moment of regress. When she died we built a house out of sticks and acorns. They say they won’t break your bones. Most of us snap limbs climbing trees. Karmatic trauma of perilous branches, the wounded arborescence conveying refuscent regret.

I am sorry we both suffered. Tinge of tears: mostly the sting of decayed mascara, delayed asterism of accounts, of admin. A sort of mourning when you peel at the bark with your chipped fingernails, the roughness because you never learned to file. You liked black paint, the name ‘Lamp Black’. Technically I would stand at filing machines with a block of mahogany and a terror in my gut that I might shave off the first flesh of my knuckles if I was not careful, if my attention lapsed for a second—which of course it was liable to do. Cloud patterns, sand particles, root of palm. The tender, meaty abrasions. A leaf in the window. A fudge of trunk. A windmill pirouette in split sycamore seedling. A man at a gig with a fidget spinner, reenacting the gleeful vacuity of a faraway childhood. He likes the repetitive beat, has a fiend in each pupil. In a dream I did nothing for days and loved it.

They shoved yellow bricks on the topsoil, building a road. Composed monotony of Sunday morning, purplish as old Cadbury wrappers, melting to grey in the blinds, the unfinished business. The city got thinner; people lived off vegetable scraps, acidic drinks. The lovely vodka was tonic for the soul. Add cranberry and stir with three wishes. Lime dash, cheap taste of the bitter quarry. Trust me, this can all go away. Tartly. The beauty of how easy it can all go away. Close your eyes and reach for the dead, a charnel miasma of dark and brilliant matter. Check lunar spells, the pulpy, rhythmic etcetera. The smarted tongue of demethylated plasma. The visceral, cavernous depths of Nick Cave’s deranged baritone, the dripping blood that seeps between two tunings. My face without water. Apocalyptic nothing. Dawn skin, imitation foundation, polished silver. Wasn’t it some ride w/ flashing lights and a siren that shredded the nerves in your spine? Things recall home. A patience.

Find myself besotted by violins and even bagpipes for the first time in my life—something about the possible soaring. The violet sublime of imaginary mountains, 23 minutes from KO to summit. Duplicity. A very weird light on the river amorphous, the narrow rapture that glimpses distance. Glasgow is O so grey and so close(d), except for special streets where sky can be seen. Washed-out autumnals, palette of eyeshadow crushed upon absent downs. The baby fly drawn to the white screen light. Flicker of water. Cradling. Give it your interest, invest in gifts. Conduct flowcharts, erect monumental spreadsheets. Working for eloquent pennies and smiling at genuine occasions, deferring the plunge of a vast anxiety.

Chance encounters with beloved people. It’s getting chilly; I notice the wisps of gold on your fingers. Tiny clatter of teaspoon, agreement. Just the want of nourishing. Can I help you with…? Careless loungewear. Languidly envisioning bike rides and the sweet nicotine of his neck, maybe not present or else a taurine sunset burst harsh on canals. Walking hours just for circling. Euphoria of autumn, the crapulent auroras of thought. Remember me here and here alone. Deepen the nauseous voices with chlorine, the temporal wound of music which eked out several nights, no grace. Brain fog(?) / darling the chosen cottage was swamped in starlings. She wants it! In my milky cocoon I slip into sea. A truly invisible misery that flourishes with absence of sunlight. Yet these have been glorious days, phantasmic fall. Lagoons of jewelline, arboreal beauty. How far the pretty trees seem, so close to fading. These are the first weeks. A new leaf being this fragile contusion, gilded with flavanols.

September a full month, fat on Lindt-rich dusks, transitioning through ending. (Un)start a record. What we write being less than unwanted dreams of childhood bedrooms. A still-written diary, a remark of childish handwriting. Sometimes the sound of the lock recalls being young and waiting at a table with homework, the dog snoring. Absence wafts through floorboards; the city flats have hallways that smell of spices and home-cooked food. The luxury of illusions. Homegrown squash from the neighbour’s garden; a generous, ministerial grin. Star Trek boxsets. Subway blasting ersatz fumes of bread. Give us our (daily) bread, your most aesthetic cucumber shred. Flour turns to flower in the whirl of a trip, slappy hour calyx. Fetishistic love for cigarettes; loathed tobacco discount nausea. Too long among clouds of nitrate, butane. Stealing the stuff in bars when hungry, letting the soothing crunch give seconds of life. Keep walking, look focused. Be watery, light. Release apophenic reactions to overwhelming reverie. Let the glassy-eyed night remain hypothetical, lull your throat with cinnamon tea. Play for 2hrs+ and expect no refunds.

A coruscating, honest energy; a heartbreak falsetto. Be mine, be mine. It’s a love-heart candy or Spinning Coin song or a leaf trampled wax-red in the rain. The gleaming of  complexions fed on beta-carotene. Waiting for the top to stop, its twirl collapses the triplet realities. Trap pop and unripe nectarines, paring of skin. Wake me up when. The haunting/ed seventh circle. Shellac memories comb trellising mystery. The Lynchian roar of Mercury’s industry. Chewing dates for luck, mulling imminent (Pause) the solitary red-berried rowans at church. Each apparition of Sebaldian land: the Suffolk coast, the labyrinth; the breathlessness of melancholics. Krapp’s remembered lighthouse, Sarah Palmer’s ceiling fan. Again, the twirling. Things that keep me awake, the static turning geometric shapes. Cyclonic diagrams of elsewhere tornados. Gently, side to side, a new tossed pound from the mint. A fresh pack of gum going stale in the rucksack. Suspense! Many day trips or nights you hoped might go on. Graveyard hookups. Rain lashes, splashes, makes it deluge a cache of murmuring sound, of hypnotic water, a lariat looping nutritious conditionals. I listen in sleep, I fall asleep to rainymood and its ambient coolness unsettles the sheets, loses the cookies. Precipitation is a quality of the tongue, without moving a lively swill of ice, of breezy smiles. Full in the no-going, the onward falling. Tell me your everything. Swaying skeletal trees are absurd. If you were in a flat and on someone’s floor and the furniture spoke to you. Be mine, be mine. September’s coming soon / blinded by the moon. Things which trigger the shifting year. Seasons are an art form in letting go of an Earth; molecular moves manifest as scent, burnish, colour. Smoke gets in your eyes, the squint-making light. Rush of the somewhere tap, free cold water, accompanied nights.

Close out. Pluto a drone in the back of my mind, the x-rays made of millioning crystals, lattices cut on the frost of midnight. At what time, the secret ossified entry beckons. Baudrillard winks with a follow me, as if he knew the currency of emoji. Emotional seduction. I say it in loathing, stuck on the affluent salt of my copper-hued cravings. You are an apple pie with a crust of ashes, you are the zone of the saddest parties/pastries. Someone taught me Jupiter’s salad of flames, or gestured towards her salubrious eye. The sky retains that tip of fire, spilt ink of other-terrestrial planes. Sonorous longing, your favourite spooky IPA. We need a holiday and a coffee, a combined electricity of homeostasis. Human profusion: a pool of Buckfast, VHS reels, vacant pleasures. Layered bodies, microbials enmeshed. SmoOoo00oth. Hatched exactitudes coke residue lumps of OCD. All good people are slowly leaving. New ecosystems persist less algorithmic than ferns, but equal to measure of possible lushness, the spiral and point of rising life. These addictions enriched with chromatic schemes of arguments and gin, or whatever the superlative spice. A price on each arrogant lacquer, a month out of season, already stewing. Braeburns juice the pallid enamel, keep us up stung without sleep. Tell me I’m leaving.

*

Car Seat Headrest – Drunk Drivers/Killer Whales

The Pastels – If I Could Tell You

The Delgados – The Past That Suits You Best

Roddy Woomble – Every Line of a Long Moment

Savage Mansion – Do You Say Hello To Your Neighbours?

Spinning Coin – Albany

Angel Olsen – Special

Frightened Rabbit feat. Julien Baker – How It Gets In

Jane Weaver – Modern Kosmology

Four Tet – Lush

Gross Net – Citadel Ghosts

Slowdive – Trellisaze

LCD Soundsystem – black screen

Bob Dylan – Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right

The Horrors – Gathering

Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds – Push The Sky Away

Screen Shot 2017-09-21 at 03.49.19