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Sweet sweat and sorrow bubbles up from my feet like a slightly out of date day in bed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

‘Kein Mohn’

Fighting. Disagreeing about fundamental things that keep you and the world upright. Arguing the toss about love and loss; just because you think it’s right to spout such shite? All homogenized and stuffed with lies that spill over the sides like tears of a clown. Helpless and haunted you twiddle your thumbs as the rain pisses down. Sopping wet stupid get.

This makes that. Spinning on the spot, tender wonder divine. All mine all mine. Chaos seized truth by the scruff of the neck and dragged it screaming through your week. Meek. Mild and wild and answering to no one. For all you’ve done. For all you haven’t done son.

Reams share dreams in teams. A crap double act with a stunning knack for tat. Search out the ins and the outs. Clap hands to understand the instruction. Formalize the plans. Drip drip away. All day. Gobshite with nowt to say. Stiff upper neck.

All aboard. All hands on deck. You should stay where you are comfortable. In your own skin with that cock eyed crooked grin. An air of uncertainty not quite filling your sails enough to keep you afloat. The shape that you are in is the shape with which we begin.

To answer the questions that the dusts settled on. To understand the upper hand is not the hand that holds you up; it’s the hand that holds you down. Holds you back. Holds half heartedly hollow promises like a bull goading rag. And we all know how that battle ends.

So, in conclusion. We have very little pity for the present because our past is shovelled down our throats and we are served up a swill of still ill shrill mornings. Afternoons aren’t delightful anymore because as evening pops it’s tired head round the corner, we are expected to bid today a cheery exit.

I can’t sleep any more. Nor any less. I can only dream. And those dreams keep me awake.


I’m not here to compromise on your behalf. I’m not prepared to tone it down nor turn it off. I’ll never be quiet if all around me are tenderly screaming blue murder.

You will hear me before you see me. You will feel the verbs ride up in your chest and hearing the sound of my pages as they turn, you’ll learn.

You don’t know me. You don’t know who I am. You have a sketchy idea of height weight and gaite. Colour of hair and eyes. Beyond that, you struggle. Gleefully tepid in your approach. Haunted yet free.

You haven’t heard me yet. Not a peep. You don’t know what’s coming next. What i might say or not say. What may tumble from my tongue. I can see you’re looking forward to it though, all clenched in anticipation.

You won’t understand this at first. I may stumble over syllables and end up quietly confused, but you will become familiar with the reasons I do me. The purpose of course to never become hoarse.

And I’m not here against my will. Under my own velocity eating my own ferocity, and i’ll wash the lot down with a chilled glass of love. My own favourite vintage. A 1966 Chateu Clarkie.