‘Older’

We are our age. Always. We are every day of our age everyday. For a split second we are the youngest we’ll ever be. We see the future swallowing the now. The tip toed yawning of a thousand million seconds we’ve left behind, gagging for the next lot of piss and giggles, tears and tantrums, a bright gust of life.

Never been one for feeling my age. I look at people and think ‘fuck off, you’re not 46?’ They actually are 46. Looking like 60. I hate being asked ‘Guess how old I am?’. I can never guess ages. Tried once somewhere and nearly got glassed by an irate 35 year old. He was 24. I don’t think saying ‘you must have had a massive paper round’ helped either. I simply say ‘about my age’ if applicable or the more succinct ‘Don’t ask me to guess your age because I will proper insult you’.

Alongside age trots beauty. Sometimes struggling to keep up. Although in finite terms we all droop away in age, our beauty is still there. A layer or three down but still there. Like the detritus that makes up sand on a beach, little worn away wrinkles and brittle snowy bristles, a Testament to tenacity. Beauty is bone deep. Skin protects that lovey luscious light in shadows rife with warmth. All sneezy promises and backward glances. Take time to taste the tears and savour their depth.

What would you do if nothing happened? Nothing at all. Would you worry you were wrong? Or accept that if you stop it stops. Time does indeed March on. Trampling the days down and whisking sanity away. Steeping the twilight in a misty hue of you. Still you. Always you.

Age. Comes to us all. Imagine that every single second of your life was a photograph. Not just some boz eyed dad taking the same frame over and over again, but every thing you do or say as a photograph. That’s what age does and is; A convenient vessel in which to store your memories. Keep making them. Age will never get full.

‘Where All The Stories Meant For You Have All Ready Started’

Sometimes you are meant to be exactly what you are. Exactly who you want to be. People tend to grow into themselves with the love and hate of those around them. Common sense often prevails and out of shit comes blossoms. We bloom in our own silly way. And we all need watering and pruning. Parents friends lovers foe. All secret scented lies.

All sweet hurt in obvious disguise.

I often scribble about my travels. You often read about my travels. Roaming and zig zagging across this conurbation like Lassie on Ritalin. I see the dusty dawn more often than I would choose to but I love seeing it each and every time. You know where you are in those still & quiet minutes; when the blackness becomes purple and the buildings awake from their slumber. Buildings made familiar by default.

This city isn’t anything different to most in it’s concept. Yet this city is perfectly flawed. It’s resilience is it’s down fall at times. Yet we create magic from that by being stoic and yet challenging. By being partially responsible for the nothing or everything spirit. Shit or get off the pot.

Getting on with it doesn’t mean getting over it. It may be the first step in healing simple wounds but the issue is still digging deep into the bones of you. Sore sure smiling pinching wincing woe. All suffocating stupidity wrapped in chance. We all smile as our tears are drying. Common occurrence in these parts. Sobbing softly into soft shoulders made taut with temper.

I will put money on the answers coming in dreams. I will proclaim your blame will shame itself and spin sweetly to a sudden stop. Pop goes your fiction; your tale told sold and wide open, dog eared diction ignored. Can’t help yourself because your arms are crossed. Face down frown.

For each a reason. Not one but you. You are already in me. And I don’t know quite what to do.

‘May A Reply Take You Near’

​Salford. Job boxed off in record time. Trying to manoeuvre staging passed tipsy Charlatans fans is a new skill for me. I only glanced one slightly, and he was in the doorway. What’s all that about? Either in or out. You can’t stand in the way. My way. Dickhead.

Trundled to the business end of Gorton. The HGV taco crew and the food producers are the only ones awake with us.

Back across to Strangeways to drop the van off. Snippets of rotunda conversations drifting across the cobbles. Brass houses and late night lock ins in draped public bars. Strangers caressing the dark with a passion that’s almost tangible.

Slowly traversed the MEN. Stood stoic and tape draped, held in the arms of that gossamer blue line. White suit fine tooth answers. And flowers. Floral insistence and pink balloons.

I held my own hand on the way home. It made no sense making sense of nonsense. As putrid as the last few days have been, we still love and we still care and we are still us. Fuck all else matters. Seriously. Take the door off the stable once the horse has gone.

Now matters and now hurts. Tomorrow, we grow again.x

‘Bellwether’

Walking around stealing smiles off children. Bitterly old and barren within. Couldn’t decide if the smiles real or rented, created for creatures so utterly dim.

Fanciful futures all peppered with shite, from doing so much wrong it starts to look right. Heavy and lustre your lies are exposed by wide open mornings sat in the cold.

Grabbing hands don’t hold me down sending words that don’t resound. Hapless decision spent youthful and broke. Syllables shifting a simian joke. 

Catching it’s catching, like a broken excuse. Promise the earth and it’s left over truth. Happily shared the daring disease and brought morning screaming onto it’s knees.

Blood on my hands and a taste in my mouth. Jumping the gun as the sun’s heading south. Clipped and staccato and patiently dull. Pass me my memories, my conscious is full.

Used up and tepid, that lost little love. Screaming and dreaming dripping scorn from above. Virtually empty but full to the brim with precision derision and my second skin.

Grateful for nothing yet happy to be helpless and faithful and stuffed full of glee. Grabbing the world by the hair yet again. Gritted and pitted your teeth through the shame.