Thank you to everyone who gradually froze to the bone as day crept into night bringing the damp & dark under a mirrored sky in the grounds of the beautiful Serpentine Gallery last night...
Hyde & Grand Wizard Eno closed two daze of poetry & related wordage with an improvised set assembled over CD's & scraps of paper in the warmth of a back room office whilst simultaneously fixin an eye on the Brazilian Grand Prix & the progress of our Lad Jenson. Thank you to the world wide community of petrol heads who kept us up to date via text & took my calls every time the magic iPhone app went down.
Met the man with the extra-ordinary eyes, Gustav Metzger ,who's exhibition is currently on at the
Serpentine (I recommend) & parted with cash in the excellent Serpentine book shop, picking up this
month's copy of Raw Vision as well as Cy Twombly 'The Natural World' & a film by Edith Jud on the
work of Dieter Roth.
I love art galleries & have done since the first time I was taken to one age 16. They're not the kind've
places a working class boy should be I know & even less a place you'd expect him to feel at home,
but from the minute I walked into one I felt like I belonged. We used to get the train from Birmingham
New Street for a day down in London, crusin the art palaces & the smaller galleries on Cork Street which I liked better. On that first trip I went to an exhibition at the Serpentine & it's been a favourite gallery every since. Though I'll always have a soft spot for the Arnolfini Gallery in it's old location next to Habitat in the Birmingham New Street shopping centre. It put art in an accessible & un-intimidating location with an ever open door for shoppers, the casually inquisitive & art-heads alike.
(at Habitat the colour 'Orange' was current, along with clear glass, bare wood & raffia).
The Serpentine gig got pushed back late & Brain busied himself around the office hunting more elements to expand our set. I lost myself amongst the F1 community & thought about what vibes rick would be giving me if he were there. The audience were freezing but gave us genuine warmth & afterwards people came up & thanked us. I cracked my head on a chrome pole holding up the mirrored sky on my way to find a taxi & wondered if I'd make the train home or be stranded in the belly of the beast. There was a fleeting familiar thrill at the thought - it's been a long time since I felt it. 'Back in the day' it would've been the excuse to stay out all night trawlin the street for bad vibrations. Liverpool Street was in pre-last orders condition.
No sick & piss on the concourse. No suited snoggers feeling each other up in dark corners. No rancid smell of ingested fermentations to sting the back of the nose on the train ride East - sweet.
Here's what I wrote:
I smell soup
On a late night train
The wheels squeal
Like steely pigs
I buy something hot
& sweet
That leaves an after-taste of cinnamon
& a fury tongue
I got blurred vision
but I'm buzzin
Reading Dylan
& dreaming Jasper Johns
The night keeps sliding
Illuminated Orange
& all I got
is a few miles to go
Home is a light
In the Heart of Darkness
& I got a Key
That fits the door
(K)