‘Bred Bread’

Today, I bought a four pack of tea cakes. (The ones with currants in. Not some strange bread based anomaly that needs discussing further. Currant tea cakes) I was on auto pilot, shuffling round the local Co op buying food to keep me dad upright. They were me mams go to food whilst she was ill. And to be honest, all through her life. All through mine as well. They tasted of coming to terms with her passing. Imagine that; the taste of grief is a teacake. Instead of raising a glass (mam didn’t drink), I have raised a teacake to her. I probably will never eat one again but there you go.

Now, where’s my fucking feet?


‘When Right Arrives’

There’s nothing easy about it being this hard.

The giggles and niggles of gloved love brushing the tears away

As the dark vents

As the straights bent

There’s always excuses and folds in the soul

The story never ends it just starts again somewhere else

As the resignation dawns

As despair yawns

Never get lost in yourself unless you’re someone else

Or someone offers you a lift back home

There’s always a good day both on your side and in the way

Last week never came and won’t again

As the week before

As I’m oh so sure

I’ll smile when the tears come

I’ll smile when right arrives

‘The Insistancy Of Nothing Makes You Something’

Empty; the broken now is something else besides.

All fractured and lost.

All cheap at twice the cost.

Twisted and torn and born, the noise isn’t stopping.

Nor is it making sense.

Nor is it helping.

It’s seriously not helping.

Dealing with the nothing that has made itself something isn’t making me whole.

Thanking the shadows is like screaming at the mirror for that view of you and who you knew.

Never kid me for reason

And do not ever take me for stupid.

Look at yourself for a second.

Can you see what you are and have made yourself?

Or are you squinting again?

Are you fucking up nothing for something you’ve had help with solving?

Disgracefully tepid.

Damp round the rim again.



I’ll never get to me without you.

And it will be our fault.


‘Inside The Dark’

I am beyond holding myself down whilst Rome smoulders in the background

Whilst the cross eyed and the hollow swallow more and more lies.

I shan’t be your livid soul eater.

Nor your memory of morning

I shan’t ask you more than once to give me back all of my mistakes so I can rearrange the darkness into daylight. Back into that rinsed out shadow that dances and twirls and eats it’s young at tables hugely laden.

We groan as the crumbs are gathered. Whilst the sound of influence echoes huge and warm, we suffer. Yet we find solice in pride. And pride in warmth. We piece together the sure as the negative elopes with reason.

Shall I mention death? The swallow me whole soulful intention that someone gladly brought into life to test the sunrise? Or shall I demand that you put me down, you cuntless fucking God?

I am beyond worn out now. And I still have so much to do. More than i thought I needed to but expected that I would have to; eventually.

That eventual is now

And it’s fucking horrid.

‘Another Bastard List Poem About Manchester’

Angry Alan from Altrincham spilling his coffee

Alan is livid

Boz eyed Brenda from Burnage moaning about the darkies

Ten to two eyes

Crappy Colin from Collyhurst addicted to Jeremy Kyle

He’s on the show next week

Dickhead Dave from Didsbury in his knitted yoghurt hat

Dave’s a twat.

Eager Elaine from Ellsmere Park sells Avon

And so does her dad

Forlorn Frida from Fallowfield works down the bookies

She hates horses

Grubby Graham from Gatley collects toe nail clippings

Not necessarily his own

Happy Helen from The Heatons sleeps with her gardener

Viciously and often

Helen thinks Dave’s a twat as well

Irate Ian from Irlam plays Warhammer on his own

He’s lost his dice, twice

Jealous John has just caught Helen in the shed

Wearing a grow bag

Kindly Karl writes all this down

And smiles. Sometimes

Lazy Lisa from Levenshulme hates her kids and her mum

It’s her own fault.

Or Dave’s.

You choose.

Mardarsed Mark from Moston wishes Hitler was still alive

Hes a bigger twat than Dave

Normal Norman from Northern Moor isn’t normal.

He’s well fucking weird tbh

Obnoxious Olive from Ordsal only eats on Thursdays

She’s obese but she’s happy

Pedantic Paul from Prestwich once bought Mark e Smith a pint

And drank it himself

Quirky Quentin from Queens Road likes to juggle sharp things

He only has on hand

Ridiculous Richard from Reddish makes artisan pencils from dust he’s collected

And sells them to that twat Dave

Sickly little Simon from Salford hasn’t been out in years

It’s down to the fact he’s in Strangeways doing a 20 stretch

Timid Theresa from Timperly likes gardening in the nude

She only owns a window box

Underwhelming Ursula from Urmsron once went out with Dave

Not that Dave a different Dave

Virtuous Victoria from Viccy ave swears that she’s still a virgin

She’s Dave’s mum

Windy Wendy from Withington once went to Blackpool on her own

It was shut

Excited Xavier from Exeter is a mature student studying Art at MMU

Smells of pencils and cheap speed

Yellow Yvonne owns the local Chinese chippy

She sells out of date forks

And because there’s nowt to rhyme with Zed

We’ll all call Dave a twat instead.

‘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.