I walk home and most times I see people, some real Boozed induced stagger mong zombies of the night. They are always trying to make a call to a once loved one or they are screaming down the network. Others who aren’t on phones just stagger past, some give devilish eyes, some ignore everything, some are just dying for you to say something so they have reason to start a war.. On this particular stroll home I had one gent lying on a bonnet trying to speak to his phone, a couple walk past speaking about jazz and a few hoody types hanging around a phone box murmured the words “what the fuck are you looking at?” I must add I didn’t look at them, I was just trying to cross the road and everyone knows you have to look both ways before doing this right? These hyena dung snifters just so happened to be in my left turn eye of sight.. . I ignored them. I always keep my wits about me when walking after the sun has gone to the other side. I’ve always been a sketchy creature on the look out for movement here and there so like to think I am not naïve. I walk along the streets under the shadows and night creeps of the hanging darkness of branches where bad fairy tales are told and the pulling of nothingness hangs in the air.. My Dad always tells me I shouldn’t walk home alone. I have to admit though I find something darkly sweet about the distance clang and mechanical reverb drone of the cranes working the graveyard shift down at the docks.. I find the sound inspiring and the deadness of the city gives my thoughts time to sprint.. Those old shard machines are always busting their backs to keep the cigars sweet and they help with inspiration, which is hard to keep in jars these days.
As I walk home I sometimes hear birds chirp and communicate way past midnight.. They are speaking on a quiet street. I wonder what they are chatting about.. A Cat perhaps, a real terror cat, or a fox maybe, or maybe a sad tale of a young chick turning in his sleep to plummet down to the grey cold concrete or just maybe they are letting me know the coast is clear and my steps to home are safe.. They are all I can hear on the street…The Night Birds I like to call them.. Yeah.. The Night Birds..
I find my street, the key enters the lock, the key hangs on the seagull key holder, the tap runs cold water, I drink, I walk upstairs, I kiss the head of my loved one, and slowly steady my own induced rum controlled ship to a calm night, and fall…. Asleep.
Here are some photos I took whilst on the recent BirdPen tour of France….