Space to contemplate the ramifications of a very tall roof. A special place set aside and designed for the ancient trade of telling tales about things that we have no right too. Because it is us and we are it, falling off the edge of reason and into a very deep pit. That comes out the other side and we sit again. Trying our best to figure out the co-ordinates of the source of all these pro-ponderous fountains of consciousness, doing all the pondering.

(To be read at a festival) — This is our Gaff, And it came for free. And it’s home to a symphony, 8 and a half billion strong. Here, sung aloud in a revelry well-won. Another season for the strange and delicate hum, that can only be sung. From within the best party in town The one hosted…

Today’s the day my number got picked — The soft haze that hangs along the dark horizon of Portobello is slowly lifting. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the city, a sunrise is making its way towards me. Nestled up here, in the temperate-rainforest that hangs between Baile’s wooden homes. …

I’m writing these tunes for the dirt, As she hurts. Waiting for me And waiting for you. To turn off the news. To go out there and link in with a wilder world and each other, The way we used to. The way we did before The family got nuked. The way we were mind-body-physiologically evolved to. Reaching out in the soaking in the rain To turn the Earth, To feed the hungry and wide eyed with love, Each to each other, as little bits of one and another.

I have faith, in the propulsion. That had the good grace, to put me here. That placed me upon this Rarest of wet rocks. I am an all-too fleshy ship. Moored within, her gracious docks. Not sometimes, A little bit lost. Trying to find the centre point. Upon which to pull a string on this thing. To set it sails, Taught against the wind. Leaning in, to the good kind of tension. Aligned with a sun-soaked horizon, & the correct direction, That we’re supposed to be going in.

The roller-ghost I had known the most, Precipitated the rain. Which fell away again. Down through the shadows Of the great, white castles. Splitting open the pain. Sky blisters burst their drains, A 100-mile smile broke across the plain.

We run to rhythms that have ways and means of outlining our honesty. Shadows pulled tight by the lighting. Showers fell down through the lightning. Feeding the thirst flowers, All sodden for the flowering.

D.a.i.s.i.e is a supercomputer with a soul. A meta-mechanical-creature that monitors the rhythms we run too. She collects all the data points we create and puts them back into her super-system. Pinging back new rhythms for us to play with. She comprehends the information we create on quantum levels, She works with us, To keep us safe. Guiding us on our musical quest, Towards new dimensions of time and space.

Jumba-Wumba, She loves having us over. She loves party’s, with sparklers, And long afternoons with laughter. She’s one for the afters. Smoking sea-grass from the jungle she swept under the ocean. Bubbling-up gulps from what’s left over. So much so that the sky is broken. And through it all she’s grace and composure. She’s starlight frozen. Or rather, Wrapped up in sarcophagus for us. For the sake, of the night, of the long and lonely mega-bus. When her warmth can no longer reach us.