12 Aug 2017

Shirt and tie

There is nothing better than a good fight
To keep your heart beating
Blood flowing and eyes alive

A love song blasting out the window
Neighbours calling for the end
A scream in some bastards face

A fight over a single point
One principle
The vein in your neck up
Forehead pounding as you spit and talk and
Stand your ground

Because they
They cannot and
Will not see the fucking light

No matter how small you are
How small your ideas
They matter
If no one ever sees you
No one ever listened
They matter

There is nothing better than a good hard
In the dirt fight
To remind you to keep on

2 Aug 2017

Eyes to the sky

I thought he was looking right at me
Then thought well
That’s impossible
He’s at least 80 and I’m going 30mph
As I got closer I saw
That he wasn’t looking anywhere
Barely walking his eyes were up and left
Fixed there on nothing
He could’ve been dead were he not standing bolt upright
Old carrier bag scrunched up in hand

It was 8.30am
And all I could think is
How alive are you
Are you locked in?
Eyes to the sky like that
And if you’re disconnected from the rest of
What’s so important to be out
At the crack of dawn?
If it was me
Stuck like that
I’d sleep ‘til midday

I never get to do that anymore…

24 Jul 2017


There is a neon sign
Always lit

The joined up letters flicker
At the far end of a dark alleyway
Tucked aside from main street

But always there
Like a scratch in the back of your throat
And a quiet buzzing

It is a room
A space
A hole in the ground that will never be filled

You used to live there
From time to time
You would come and go and go again

And now though I seem to rarely think of you
Even in sleep
It will stay lit always


25 May 2017

I’d made the mistake of assuming we were all alike

I had to get a haircut
I grew up around these people and
They are still the same
Amazed by everything

Smalltalk will not get you beyond the £13 I intend to pay for this shit

The woman behind the counter offered coffee/tea/juice
I saw some optics on the far wall, glasses on a shelf and 
Bottles of gin, vodka, JD
She didn’t offer those
What a bitch

You sit there and stare at your own face
Eyes darting round the room to avoid taking
Too much of yourself in
While outside a drunk couple stagger past the open door
     ‘…do I really look that bad?’ she slurs
He mumbles something back
And she seems more at ease with her appearance

I don’t know if it’s a coincidence or there’s a
Convention in town but at that exact same moment
Across the street a young black girl fell out
Of the door of the off licence
Promptly sprang up off her knees and walked away
The sun shone hard
The evening breeze taking some of the edge off

I take issue with the necessity of it all
Having to call this guy to cut your hair
To fix the bad wiring in the walls
The gearbox on the car
Brake pads, oil, all that shit

2 days previous
I’d called another one
And there he was in the kitchen
Sideways across the floor and tools all over the place
Talking away as they all do
But this one
Told me about bands he’d seen
The Ramones at Brixton
The Damned and the Pistols, Black Flag and Crass
He told me of
His friend's little art punk band who played gigs for food banks
So instead of tickets the audience had to bring
Bags of food to get in

A swear to god he was a ray of sunshine in an otherwise
Shitty week

I feel a bite on the back of my neck where the clippers catch the skin
It snaps me back in and I realise the guy has been talking this whole time
I have no idea about what

I don’t dislike him
Or them
Or you
I just continue making the mistake of assuming we’re all alike.

18 May 2017

Chris Cornell May 17th 2017

Love leads to loss. There is no escaping it. The more closely you hold someone, something, the more pain is felt once it departs. We are instinctual in our love for family, mothers, fathers, brothers, children. But as individuals we create new connections with those beyond our reach - the artists.
We grow with them and they in turn form part of who we become. Imprinting their words, voices, feelings into us and injecting part of their soul into our own. Often this adds weight to how we view the world, ourselves and each other. But it is a weight we are happy to carry. There is meaning and beauty in the depths of the darkness they share.

And vicariously we jump and kick and scream and fight with them, through them, because our lives dictate we cannot fight, we cannot scream. The art allows you to become more of yourself. Your dna is engrained with it and so it turns to a devotion of sorts but one that gives just as much as it takes. And when they are departed it feels as though part of you has also, they are an old friend only you knew, who understood you more than anyone. And the hurt remains as music, as a voice. And you are left with the question of how to turn that back into the beauty of how it all began. 
Maybe I’m being overly dramatic - and all today I’ve felt the need to lessen the importance of all this. They are just songs, and singers of songs. But I can’t play the songs today. I can’t listen to the music yet and hear a voice that meant so much, that won’t sound ever again. Tomorrow I’ll try, I’ll dig out a selection of records and link them one by one as a screaming tribute. But for now, today, there's silence.

17 Apr 2017

Thanks Magda

Now I am quietly waiting for the catastrophe of my personality to seem beautiful again, and interesting, and modern.

Frank O'Hara


14 Mar 2017

A black hole of optimism

Another rejection letter another competition to enter
Another new indie website/zine something or other
To butter up with rambling unmarketable prose

I set the computer keys up so they click clack
As the typer used to
And try to remember back to when there was more fire

Try to recall times when the maelstrom was taking us
A circling tiger with teeth exposed
Muscles coiled and ready to jump

To repeat to re-live that fear
To replace this new dull grey adult anxiety 
To dig into the dirt and shit and come up with something

And after all these years I avoid any style
Duck and weave and resist entering any real form
Such is the curse of still needing to do this;

I am a painter with no school
A singer of cover songs
But how to convince people that every word I've put down

In black and white
Is all one huge black hole of optimism
Spinning there right in the centre of everything
Remains a mystery.