Miki from Lush, the band not the brand. But just what about her I could not say.
An oily and grease stained garage workshop, complete with a pit, an ersatz office space stinking of ashtray, petrol spill, an old and sad alsatian and a general air of 1986 body odour – none of which is of my doing. Pirates, possibly paranormal or pantomime, loiter in the doorways, conspiring. A lazy asian man in a dirty shirt ringed at the armpits with tidemarks of sweat on a chaise longue that has seen better days. His hair is slick, black and beetle like. He smiles with lying eyes as I enter, but makes no effort to rise as I reach over for my guitar (that I am surprised to find here). “No guitar,” he mumbles, and his teeth are small and black and gold. I try to lighten the mood – “You’ll listen and like it!” It is meant as amateur dramatics, as humour, but it is lost on this specimen. Teenagers, smelly and badly dressed and smoking (smoking is surely not permitted?) lurk, making pointless and artless noise. Mum has arrived with her sister and a collection of babies and toddlers and cousins. They wait for me on a stained settee, beneath which I can see as I approach, a vast collection of used coffee cups, ashtrays, magazine detritus and dust. I say hello and as I do I feel rising in me the realisation that this bad dream is possibly a representation of my waking life.
Sat in the walled garden at Mill Dam. It is dark. I am smoking and drinking a beer.
‘yellow squares of light
the neighbouring apartments
beneath the beech tree’