A bark from the blue back in 92

I sat there, stoned, and hating Pink Floyd

Cause that’s what I knew that I was meant to do.

I didn’t even really like the smoke

Cause it made me feel miles dumber than I knew I should do.

And, well. He was an artist, this bloke. We sat

In his tiny living room on a sofa, somehow

Wedged in, a TV and a stereo a foot opposite

So to get out you’d have to crab sideways

But we were mates. (At least, we were then. Not much

Later, things happened, and he proved himself

To be a… well. We’ll have to talk again

About the way it unfolded). He doodled a collage

Without fuss or editing, straight to A3 in a burst

Of Sharpie, which at the time was a posh pen

And one you’d not really have if you weren’t

A Serious Drawer. Which he was - serious I mean -

Whilst guitar wanks and shitty diesel black fumes

Filled this weird tiny funny great odd little house

With a dullness and slowness, and I was subsumed

By the tartan-cloth cushions. And down and down

And down and down I sunk, dizzy, hoping to find

The White Rabbit myself. But that wasn’t the song.

That wasn’t the band. My balloon of a mind

Couldn’t hold any thought, and I watched his deft, strong

Movements over the paper. I couldn’t see it.

I couldn’t move. Didn’t understand how to move.

Somehow a cup of tea manifested. This

Brought me back. I was no longer removed

From myself,
From the solos,
From the indulgent shit

That I hated, cause that’s what I was sposed to do.

My hands warmed by the chipped mug, I giggled

At – what? – nothing. Everything. Everyone who’d

Ever sat anywhere, ever drank tea. And he fiddled

With one last flourish, one set of shapes wobbled swiftly

From his mind to his hand through the pen to the paper.

And he showed me the whole thing. It was a fucking mess, really.

Half an angel here, half a train there. No form, rather

The opposite, maybe. (It crossed my mind later

That perhaps he was sending me some kind of message:

‘Yes I am an artist, but that doesn’t ever

Mean everything I do is brilliant). Well, whatever

There was on this sheet, chock-full of stick-men

And cloud-fish, and gilled-tits, and graveyards,

And bearded band members with Saracen

War robes, and moons wearing lanyards

With AAA passes on them, and girls shooting

Fire from their crotches and melting

Vicars with enormous erections, there in

The corner, the tiniest doodle, the last thing

He’d scrabbly scribbled in dopey disaster

Was a puppy. Beady-eyed. On a tartan-frayed rug,

And instead of back paws this strange little bastard

Had two spherical rollers; he seemed happy enough.

Through the fug of the roach and the mist of the tea

I wished that I could befriend this cracked crock,

This misfit, this throwaway spud that drew me.

And that was the first time I met Castor Dog.