Peter Hughes and David Rees: Let’s Dantz



half way through a Leopardi rewrite
David Rees came to me in a vision
manning a mobile karaoke booth
that featured sparkling astral projections
of one Pan’s person after another
in the lockdown lukewarm London night
I nearly spilt my tsai in the abyss
& spasmed to a Francoise Hardy song
so I knew it was time to reload with
Stone’s ginger wine & an Aldi speyside
single malt loaf pressed against each ear
then head along the path up through Braichmelyn
(which certain locals say is not called that)
emerge upon a gorse shelf in the sky




under the sign of the blue square halo
the river of death jogs on
I think it’s in E?
most of the air we breathe is memory
a picnic & swim on Ynys Llanddwyn

a bit of Polish pork loin from Llandudno

over a flask of tea we remembered
Blake said trees were the imagination

& even in Venice
Canticles are not a breakfast cereal

like the small penguins of Tasmania
we’ve undergone a catastrophic moult

we’re going home
we’re dirty boppers





Talking Heads said she was moving into
the universe moving this way & that
& she was she was riding an NSU Quickly
down the Cowley Road at 4 in the morning
she was skating along the Brighton promenade
she was standing on the ferry cross the Mersey
she was changing trains at Gard du Nord
she was boarding Metro A at Anagnina
she was catching that San Giovanni tram
she was leaving from Schönefeld Airport
Dave’s calling out for his telescopic de Kooning mop
& some of that krunchy nut yellow
he sometimes puts in people’s eyes & lamps




I believe it was your man Corcoran
who introduced me to Caitlin Canty
who as it happens is performing now
in so far as that has any meaning
as we gingerly entered the dark halls
of the Covid & Rhubarb Triangle
as if it were the 700th time
our old red hats still bobbing in the gloaming
I love a bit of rustling in the morning
uncovering the long pink stalk before
it softens into nothing but its soul
O rosy & delicate translucent blob
chillin’ in the porridge’s warm dimple
Caitlin’s singing get up get up get up




the venue resembled a Weatherspoons
collaged onto an Amazon warehouse
queues extending back as far as Dover
what with the self-imposed staff shortages
none of the punters still possessed a nose
having cut them off to spite their faces
into which they now decanted lager
washed down with lager for eternity
Transcendental Étude Opus fuck knows
the one where Puck & an entourage of
pissed Will-o’-the-Whisps trash the beach again
you still can’t move for rancid troubadours
in rusty vans held together with Rizlas
playing anti-vax medleys on a tongue drum
Dave wipes something nasty off his Pan pipe
& pastes another nymph onto the night




David Rees, painter and photographer, born Bethnal Green 1960, lives and works in London.
Peter Hughes is currently based in north Wales where it is still raining.

these poems & pictures are from Let’s Dantz. 


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