On The Death Of David Bowie – 2016
In death we are all equal but David Bowie transcended even that truth.
I see a queue, as long as eternity, shuffling feet slowly moving forwards towards the precipice of the unknown. Mostly anonymous but here and there a glimpse of recognition as you watch the line tumble into a bottomless pit of final days. One by one they fall, leaving behind loved ones, relatives and followers, and it’s the living who suffer as the darkness descends as it inevitably will.
The last breath of a stranger that you knew, a body shattered, a face lined with sickness that penetrated your very existence and shaped your own soul, guided you towards a light switched on inside your head, that small sharp click that opened up the whole universe and its possibilities, suddenly gone. Left in an empty hall, crying on the dance floor, spilling your emotions like a broken dam. The shock, the silence beforehand, that left you unprepared and the silence afterwards, that leaves you speechless.
The music, an avalanche of inspiration and the lyrics inventing worlds in another universe away from the drab garb of the ordinary, conjuring the imaginable, dressed in the fantastic. Rivers of colour power into pools of impossible truths, the freezing clasp of art as it chills your blood and the dark kiss of alien lips that torture your heart into submission. The black warmth of loud guitars and the silent whisper of drums. The possibility to see visions in words and to slide them like futuristic interlocking silver clasps into the baffling traumas of life. To find answers in sentences that slip you clues.
Epic washes of sound collapsing down like a crumbling mountain from heaven. A soundscape so dense that a forest can appear or the Berlin wall or the ravages of Dystopia under blackened roses. Trembling magnificent overtures from lost manuscripts sewn into the hem of a sparkling dress, waves and dreams in locks of hair and beauty in a shattered mirror. Arcs in the curves of dancing angels in the theatre of ambiguity. The timbre of a voice that commands you not to obey.
David Bowie is dead.
(Originally posted on the In Deep Music Archive – READ HERE.)
Penzance, Cornwall, England – 2017
Walking by the sea, the insects lost on the wind, fly with the salt spray into my face, careering into my cheeks, drowning in the running tears as buckled wing and bent proboscis, lifeless, disappear into the grey stones, transparent.
A gust loosens the paper between my fingers, the details of a stranger, a friendship lost so quickly, only begun an hour before under the blackened beams of the coffee house that overlooks the harbour.
A break in the clouds reveals a cold sun that for all its power fails to penetrate the thick blasts that push struggling people into railings, fighting to keep their balance as they climb all shapes against bitter biting whirlpool swirls that leave the cheeks raw.
A cat cowers in a doorway unable to see a path to home, the fur rug, the crackling fire, the sound of the rattling box of dried morsels and the comforting caress of human fingers under the chin.
The rain slants like mathematical weapons analyzing the angles to find the vulnerable doorways into your coat – through the loose button holes, between the collar and neck and up the sleeves at the cuff.
Finally the glowing light of your window gives you hope as you drop your guard for just one moment in relief for the site of home, as you step into the largest puddle of your journey soaking your sock through your shoe, water pouring in through the eyeholes of your laces. You curse, remove a glove and plunge your hand into your pocket for your keys.
The relief as the flat metal turns in the lock, the door opens, the cat sees the opportunity and runs bedraggled through your legs into the hallway as you stumble over the mat into warm peace.
Joshua Tree, California, USA – 2017
Blackened by soot, turned in the ground, writhing like a screw thread in the hot dust, the fire of the imagination burns the skin and scars the soul, tearing out ideas, viscera on the soft carpet of expectation. I thrust my hand out towards the thought, trying to hold it between my fingers so I can examine it, see its worth. Ultimately it slips through my fingers and rolls under the sofa like a burst button. I fall onto my knees, crane my head and there from the shadows staring back at me are two answers disguised as the truth – one is real the other an illusion, one a simple lie but which is which?. It’s tempting to reach in but what if you take hold of the wrong answer? Sound accompanies the conundrum, one sound loud, one sound soft coming left and right. It’s hard to concentrate on one as the other interrupts. There’s a different melody for both. Patience can be the only solution, so I wait.