Sunday, 4 October 2009


I come here just for the roads. those endless streaks like beestung blurs of light.
When i'm having a bitch of a night, wideawake, and my fists in fits under the sheets of GOD LET ME SLEEP, i go to have my heart gobbled up.
The journey.
Usually ten minutes of soft ocean blow in my head, eyes ache and a gallon of cold water. But when i park up, switch the ignition off and head down to Movert Bridge, i'm a travelling ghost of winters good salesman. Let me sing through the motherfucking night!!

Her coffee has nothing on the quiet. Its cut like glass, clean and precise, with the circular spark of a figure eight. but it is BLOWN OPEN. it is as wide as the world.

So to God i go and God i come back, six or seven miles watching cars approach and recede, a steady hum in a dancing collage of grey. the road is alight with the chalk-white glow of night. all the fissures and the atoms bump and breathe in the air and then i sneak back -

The bed creaks when i get up. and when she stirs - six am punctured with the warm smell of her cotton close weight - i grind her coffee beans and i wait.