Rain, rain, rain, rain, rain, rain, rain, rain, rain,. Earth. People. Machinery rolling on rings of rubber.Mud, mud, mud, mud, mud, mud, mud, mud, mud,, mud, mud, mud, mud, mud, mud, mud, mud, mud. Dance?

Distortions of pain drain away, leave a body fragile & experimental. Interviews by phone + illness a new experience – better than hang-overs, joy, joy. Listening to a CD we picked up in Tokyo: ’The First’ by Yoshio Kuge (Beauty out’ve Oil wrapped in Metal).

I’ll be in your poem if you’ll be in mine. Your eyes are dim but your feet are bright, dressed in this seasons colours. Sheltering from the heat, wrapped in the decadence of air-conditioned luxury, watched by the electric-eye of another CCTV. Rick locked in a box mixing live recordings for the World. Hyde scraping poetry off the streets of the Emerald City. Rewarded by the regular visit to the Bernard Jacobson Gallery, clearing a sonic space between the ears with SUPERMAN.