Cool It

(P) ower (I) s push through blur, when my eyebrows keel upwards
Pain for what pain is: a chemically reactive porblemtaic conceived within a scribbly circling of footsteps in a same-place
Heads belonging toward the skye
And the dilly-dally  (DR) eaming, periodically, paragraphically, routinely – a monologue clung onto with wispy hairs on their dead-ends
Whispered words are the currency of one head falling down upon soft surface
A moment where the vacuum ceases to whir, green man! Run over again; the tyre marks the all-over-the-place
Dispersed disappeared approval, like the shadow of a signal on endless waves
Fingernails carving caution into sacred tarmac whilst greyish melted seeps through banished skin

Right on, got with it

Head straight

The doubts fall down on a cardboard wound
A short-circuit is what the long-lost isn’t

Got the picture
Framed my daily routine dreams on a wall and called them out
The doubts faded in, the fidget of a thought that saw its feed

Now moving, structure of a structure, air-conditioning on, bright signals on the dashboard
Headlights dim through
Circled soles, hitch’d, noses, hair flying, undrafting powers on the interscape

Take it down a notch and organise the indicated organs organising, count the lucky downbeats of a brain contained, controlled
Entangled legs of the own, alonether, this: some ongoingness and becomingness: flourishing cheeks expressed

Driving into the sleeping fields, the ever-terrains, the night’s'oft’ands

nothing “-in-the-stars”

My laptop’s levelling again
My homeostasis, feigning again

Something framed worked and working

All another song, another busied ear, a mind-throb, all thing’d “-in-our-hearts”

To the sound of a chronology cascading into timeless epics, clean-cut-out distorted clarity, intense of -ancholy, molten movements made graspable for the reactive pulses of clicks and submissions – nothing more

good than this there people-artifact called She So Rad, where the vocals are rounded between songs, between different people; an album to be released this 2015-time, and the window above, name your price on Bandcamp – here.

eyelids on it
don’t lose it


Frosted Screen

Bwa, this one riddles the silence,

therapeutic doses,

makes the moon outside make a little more sense, brings it all a bit more together, the concept, the cloud, and the curtains

some recurring theme. a good night . pictured


Once I was told we like bass frequencies, bass drums, because they remind us of heartbeats. One for the road – thud

And I don’t know if it’s subjective, but this oscillation arpeggiation reminds me of winter life, that ol’ winter life, when cold comes upon my forehead so blankly, a thud, the oil-lamp inside jiggles a little and creates helpful patterns for itself: when the days end early and it finds its routine, find its reflection – light’s hazy memory in its proper peaceful place, flickering.

The stop/start towards the cloud end, the anti-outro, that’s how I know


Follow the links and forwards -



This is a musician who recorded music in her hay-day and then to be later released by her son when he discovered it . 2 . 0 . 0 . 6 … a future world of time.
Her album Colour Green has filled the space with steady.

And here’s a cover. Clear sky.


Songs for Drying Off

Linda Perhacs is an American psychedelic folk singer, who released her first album Parallelograms in 1970 to scant notice or sales. The album was rediscovered by record enthusiasts and grew in popularity with the rise of the New Weird America movement and the Internet. It was reissued on CD and 2-LP in 2005, and again in 2008.

Her songs have been featured in soundtracks to many films including – blank page -

- Upright enough for the ebb tide – brittle enough for the service collection – worked up enough for the midnight transaction – cradled enough for the car journey – grey enough for the system dialogue – see-through enough for the foot-notes – ascertained enough for the indoors – embracing enough for the sensitive skin – clear enough for the diary entry – entered

The above slogans printed on old blotchy paper

And Pinned slightly

Above the bed shoulders

Aftermath hyper daze contained

Memorised and mould

Flats of dark

A current to current

Present to present

A towel wrapped around to solve everything

Into the evening lights, with the music.

Songs for Bathing

Shirley Elizabeth Collins MBE (born 5 July 1935) is a British folksinger who was a significant contributor to the -blank page-

Too cold to settle, too exhausted to sleep – too empty to think, too full of ache to contemplate – too anxious to know, too restless to reassure – too drowsy to fly, too dreamlike to walk -

A shirt with those slogans printed on in small print

Piled up and shivered

A misty mirror of folklorish politics

A drive to type

Beneath the sink

A future to past

A bath I’ve run to solve everything

Into the lovely night, with her music.


I’ve made the long voyage home. The feeling of home, toes warm carpet, window squared still, room hug corners, know it so well. I’ve made the long voyage home and left only glint behind me. This morning was had on the shores of hurried gathering of things together, a hurried clompety clompety to the railway pssshhhco! pssshhhhco! And countryside rolled slightly in a way I will miss when I’m future. Curled on of my few comfortable horizontals, that know me, I am drying after a session of splashing and washing and stretching. I’ve made the long voyage home.

What have I left to give?
I still have something of a live moment I experienced about a week ago now, a live moment in my place of this morning’s departure.
That something is difficult to articulate, it’s natural to expose, so let me expose myself. in strands, like the texture of something palpable, the voice has the texture of a face I know, the face touched like sacred slightly rough skin, thickened yet so intricate, so true, the voice levitates but also stretched and placed kinetically, a sound of sensitive looks, a sound of hurt, registered, then unleashed in opened fists upon the vast air of an attentive ocean-coloured mind.

I’m listening to the audio, the voice, I’m not watching the video, I’m typing, I’m scrolling, I’m here, perched at home, yet internet still, I still dangle myself exposed in the irksome ink of in-between realms, contentedly, where I belong, and I feel a sense of belonging to this song as well.

The live moment? In York. My university town, my 80% of the year, I know York a lot partly through the live performance of and organised by Sam Griffiths. Sam is one of the few artists who deserves more than just a plug, and since I’ve forgotten how to do plugs without simultaneously pouring out my soul, it’s only a matter of time until this particular plug sucks me up into the dark for my reducing a  sensational song-writing talent, Sam, into a few slightly confusing sentences amidst a post about someone who played a gig that he put on.

The live moment had this mentioned song called Salmon Run, by Amy Ellis, another artist in York.

It’s up there with the best of 2014 and today is along with the late December archives, the best kind.

Gggiven & out