The Grit bin emits the cacophony of a heated discussion amongst
a crowd of people heard through the wall of a cheap hotel room.
The green grass around it hums in random waves of fluctuating notes
& intensities. The dead grass hisses like transistor radios between stations.
The black shadow behind the bin sighs heavily. The bits of stick
& stone on the gravel in the foreground make tiny ticks like a
Geiger counter. Theres a diagonal line of light gravel in the background
emerging from shadow, going from a muffled to a bright hiss, more distant
than the hissing of the dead grass. Whilst the black gravel in the foreground
sings like a male choir making the shape ‘Ah!’ – constant – unwavering
(I can’t make out the chord, but it makes me feel good).
Throughout all this the Yellow of the plastic bin is just trying to cheer
everybody up & pull them all back together – looking a little dirty,
but never giving up.
(last night – driving with Z on the radio, listening to Burial-sublime)