The meditation from last night as a couple of people asked it get put here
I have a bit of a thing about party debris. I love empty bottles and cans lining mantelpieces, burnt out tea lights, wet fag ends, redundant corks. The crashed out bodies of last night’s revellers in duvets around a house, resisting the morning light. The dregs of drinks in hungover cups along bookshelves, the glass distorting the titles on the spines of my books.
This morning in someone else’s kitchen, picking over bottle tops and soggy cupcake papers, I thought, – I’ve had a thing about the debris for a while but I’d not thought about what I liked about it much – and this morning I thought, it’s coz we were alive last night, – I look at the shrapnel and I know we had fun. – I’m not dead. I’m not going quietly. It’s a relief. My limbs work. My blood isn’t thin.
The Thames in the Fire Sermon carries no party debris. “The river bears no empty bottles, –/ Silk handkerchiefs, cigarette ends /Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed. /And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors; /Departed, have left no addresses”. No party debris, and the people we knew or didn’t know, who populated our line of vision, have left; and it feels hollow.
Sometimes my God rattles through my city air and my sinews and cartilage and the tube tunnels I’m shunted through daily.

