‘I Don’t Know What You Want From Me’


I don’t need 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Sweet sweat and sorrow bubbles up from my feet like a slightly out of date day in bed.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.

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 be over there.x

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​’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.

‘Crackling’

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.

Proper

‘A Smile Besides’

Are you alright?

Everybody happy?

Well you won’t be by the time I’ve finished with you.

It doesn’t get any better than this you know. Not me shouting nonsense at you; life. That great big bag of bollocks we all limp through day after day after day. Year in year out scout snowt. Deliciously deadly deft to dream as today is near perfect. Bell ringer nails chewed. Staying rude and shadowing and huge. Bigger than your Head, you whisper as the charge is read. 

Guilt doesn’t count. It gives way to strangers you already know. It picks at scabs and adds a shine to the full dull nothing to do. It causes arguments that end in tears as years of fears catch up on you. You; with nothing left for anyone to still do for you. Cast aside your assumptions they’ve been bitter long enough. Bitter and blue Bertie Magoo lost in Salford whilst slightly bemused by the sheer size of it all. Not a cow but life.

A story told is a story shared. No point reading nothing of which you don’t care. The fares fair if you sit at the back. Making shapes in the shadows as your eyesight declines. Sorting the chaffed from the bits and keeping it clean til it finds a smile besides.

You don’t see tomorrow til today’s spent itself in a sportsock. Wiped a morning away and yawned. Forgot to take it’s pots down stairs for nearly a week. 

You don’t see pain in the eyes of the ones you love until you’ve hurt them. And they’ve hurt you back.

You don’t know how to help until you feel helpless yourself. Shitty and curled up like a month old barmcake (Northern)

I will point out your mistakes and as I do, i will be happy if you accept them. It’s not my place to blame all the same. Yet you are simply part of life’s rich tapestry. A stitch in mine. Devine.

‘Tutting’

We had a game in our house. When we were growing up. Just before payday, we’d have a rummage through all of our coat pockets for some shrapnel. 10 Bob’s, 20 p’s, pound coins. Scrabbling about for owt with Lizzies head on it. Back of the sofa or down the arms was another one. Didn’t bother with the penny jar cos it was rinsed for that 2 quid in 20ps that you launched in their last week. The ones you couldn’t be arsed rattling round with. The ones you didn’t want to put in the ticket machine cos there would be a queue and you hate people tutting behind you when it takes you a week to buy a return to Piccadilly. Finding a folded up sky diver or better still, a score, always made our day. The difference between smoking dimps or having a vinegar butty, or 20 Sovereign and a chip barm.

We play a similar game now. Now we’re grown up. We still search the coats and couches and the pockets of car doors. Usually finding only dust and a Greggs paper bag, and a chewed pencil from Ikea. We know where the Holland’s meat pies are a pound a piece from a multipack. We get cheap cigs through the post from Pink friends. We find there is far too much month for the money. Too much out than in. Wafer thin grin and sleep fitful from falling apart. Yet we hold each other together. We manage and we darnce. Often out of step but never out of tune. And we’re never thirsty.

And you know what? That’s what we are and so we are what we do. We keep searching for loose change, even in the shittiest corners of our days, lying to at least ourselves about being perfect. And when we find the 20 quid, we spend the fucker. Blown out blow out twist and shout flash of joy.

Be you. Be all you can do. You. No one else’s responsibility to do you but remember not to take offence when you become someone else.