‘It’s Really Not About You’

You know how it is. Something happens that you’re least expecting and your head falls off mid afternoon because it got that full from morning. Stuffed to the gills with ill will, envy and denial.

That gust of life that batters your day and kicks up enough dust to block out the next 6 months. All gritty eyed and limp, the excuses flow and so do the tears. Sobbing sorrow wrings its clammy hands and wipes the snot away on its sleeve.

No need for what ifs. Now is not the time to reproach yourself about the might have been the inbetweens the what you’ve seen. Now is about making sure that what you do in the future shapes the scrapes to come. All and each and some.

Sorry isn’t included in today’s list of pity. Sorry may be the hardest word to say for some but why say it? Nobody is perfect but neither I am. As much as I try I will find fault. I would moan if I got 6 numbers. I once fell in a bucket of tits and came out sucking my thumb. Dumb

Catch sight of tomorrow. If it smiles awkwardly you are in for a shit storm born of your own making. It it blinks and yawns then head for dawn. Yesterday owes you fuck all and if it did, you would only break it. This week has been shit. Next week will probably be worse but hey. Let’s still try.

Love lost is at least a love you had. Not having loved only loses its appeal when you hurt. And it gives you cramp. Long legged and knotted, you decide to dance. Purposeful and pedantic it holds its own hand.

Today I feel like crying yet I am pissing myself at me.

And that’s all I will ever be.



‘Petty Green Haste’

I am everything you hate. The out of tune singing the ears still ringing that fucking noise in your head.

I’m all you’ve ever said wrong, brought back after you have forgotten it, over and over and over again.

I’m the same shame reignited like a moorland fire yet you’re not smouldering. You are quietly standing in the embers of your own stupidity hoping that the wind may change. It wont. You won’t allow it to.

You. Wrapped up tight in shite. Slipping and dripping and whipping your way through a day borne of denial from headache to smile. Gritted teeth beneath your dim chin. Chance slim.

Thin. Never. The lighest you have been is when you were born. Scorn carries you through til your wringing hands understands it’s now, not then.

Again. Every excuse is made for you. Like Velcro you never go until you’re made to with a sticking plaster alabaster nasty little tug.

Mug. Me or you? You choose. I will never lose by being me. I see how free today makes me and I fucking love it.

Who makes me breathe? Me.

Who makes me see? Me.

Who carries me through 24 hours without making a mistake? Me. Fucking me.

Twee. All the shite you hold so tightly that you need to let go of because it holds you back is all the shite that makes you right.

In your head.

In your own silly hollow head.

I’ve never heard nor seen your inbetween

And I wouldn’t want to feel that clean so I chose today to tip you out

And as morning brings that soothing shout

A silent dripping stupid wave that’s stopped the world from seeming brave.

Whilst I am partial to the odd lie, I prefer the truth.

‘Mullered Over’

Is it just me thinking it or have we regressed to the 1950’s? Everything I have watched or read or experienced over the last few months has direct parallels to an era when we as a country were mending ourselves from a war we didn’t need or want. Racism is so violently intrusive that we are awash with Primark Nazis trying to soak us with their vitriol, from government downwards, both here and abroad. Horrible little stains from immigrants scared of themselves. Somehow we have stalled at giving people any work rights. Zero hour employment contracts hark back to a time when jobs were loosely paid and hours made long. Rogue landlords abound again. Mouldy walls and shit replies. Music is a rehash of shit styles or repeated wank melodies spewed up again and again. Run by svengalis who wouldn’t know a decent tune if it shat on their chest in a Travelodge. Fashion even demands an age gone by. Ancient smelly trainers re issued in 30 different colourways for sad dad’s in arm labelled anoraks.
Every generation asks the same question. ‘What will we leave for our kids?’ At this rate, only those that care will manage to leave anything but dust and debt, and both will be taxed to the hilt. Main bonus is that Manchester City are successful again. Every cloud?

‘I Don’t Know What You Want From Me’

I don’t require an explanation of your opinion

I understand where you are heading and where you’ve been

I have no desire to follow your trajectory

I’d rather get lost on my own thanks all the same

That journey is a journey I owe to myself

Sweet sweat and sorrow bubbles up from my feet like a slightly out of date day in bed

Cotton button down frowning clowning dipped in upside down

Fearless and faultless destruction licking pickings rich

Horrid is as horrid does or doesn’t do

Not arsed about your stupidity

You’re well trained all the same

Silly little shutter snap handicap

Broken down closet friend never not never on the mend

To stubborn to bend

Too thick to comprehend

Too tired to care or share

Stay put

And I’ll meet over there.x

‚Äč’I’m Not Pissing Down, I’m just Tired’

Can anyone tell me if it’s raining today

 I’m asking for a friend.

He doesn’t get out that much these days

And it drives him round the bend

The last time he went out it was sunny

 Time before it was thick with snow

He’s planning on going to Lidl for some cheese

That’s why he needs to know

Whether he needs to wear his waterproofs

Or at least take an umberella

He usually wears socks & sandals

He’s simply that sort of fella

So if you can pull them curtains wide

And look out just like Guy

My friend would be ever so grateful

Cos he wouldn’t have to stay inside

(Other supermarkets are available. As are other Northern bearded crooners that my bird likes…)