Writing for Enya's Castle (Part 1) Calactus podcast no 7

Wash away with the Thames; St Paul's to the left and Celebrate 10 Years of Tate Modern at 45 degrees, building work on a massive scale behind, whilst I sit in The Founder's Arms.

Ah my sweet. Sleep.

Sleep. To the beachcomber steps in Thames tidal gravel shore as tour boats go about their business; mixing with saws, drills and pile-drivers- the City Cruise amplified voice clashes over the water; child cease squealing.

A starting point in hallowed halls- helicopters and planes above mix with cutlery, idle blather- below.

Micheal Clark dance company practise live in the Tate Turbine Hall; artistic process exposed.

What does one use as a reference point?

In this instance, wall hanging baskets turn and empty their flowers towards me- someone breaks a glass- in colours enriched on this grey London day 17th August 2010 15:45; child squeals her delight, 'where's nanny?' Father attempts to guide. I think of Crete and the flowers beside pool, only one ant instead of a legion here, without you.

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Hot walk, sunlight comes through the window as I fragment,
as I fragment words,
are not,
they,
I mean the words are not passed on this 17:00 to Sheffield.

St Paul's was shut, but could be an excuse for a taunting (jokingly) wheeze of your/my faiths. Of course I knew that it was a Protestant church. Interestingly enough, by, buy the lay preacher off.

Awaiting departure. Awaiting departure. Ties and coloured shirts proliferate on the busy coaches, with casual/smart, casual.

Faceless wholesale warehouses, dirty bridges, tunnels blacken (moments) the view- I praise baby Jesus or the British Rail man for putting on the air-conditioning. Did he say train was due in Kettering 17:56?

A coloured girl rifles through past train tickets, plugged into an iPod, as I, reading a gossip mag': Closer, whilst a young guy reads something on performance cars.

I read nothing, but write this in brightness.

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Told telt upon broken time (in a good way).
Sleepless full of new days beseeched to the press.
Nostalgic for forgone conclusions I whisper out news; deliberate like to our press, wherein, a friendly mouse hides, and asks, 'do you have anything other than muesli cereal and home-made pickled eggs that have gone off?'

I reply, 'be off with you cheeky, fast heart-paced sirrah! I do not cater for your tastes!!'

'Charming,' despondently he goes back in his hold: i.e my mind.

Little merchant.
Little time.
Little within the molecular, atomic (even) size.

*

Stickleback fish do not know where they go, and captured, we reach in, to feel them tickle our fingers in the cool waters of a stream.

I remember a stream; from when, in the 80's my family holiday would be in Lorna Doone Valley, in Devon. A static caravan by the stream, happy memories that build a potential father- given by a father. Each personal to each person on this Earth- if lucky- not extraordinary, but given free.

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We may, I may, we may, I do hear voices within my head (believe in theory) control or release; stress..or is it...tension test?

We all do.
At some time or other.

We the collective sign (undersigned).

We the collective abridged and (through the powers that be) unabridged countersign.

Excuse for rhyme?

Take the London Underground Central Line; n.b it is always wise to strike at an opponents central line, if, the opportunity arises.

We the all, love.

I love the all.

I love you.

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