‘It’s Not As Dangerous As Being Shot’

No need to make your bed if you never get up. Lay down lying in it half cocked half cut.

Hand out hand me down excuse this clown. Backward pedalling slight of hand. Understand how underwhelmed you appear my dear.

No point making stories up. We find you nasty and sodden and bubbling as it is.

Hand out hand me down excuse this clown. Stood up straight you’re still upside down. Understand you’re still unplanned.

No desire to listen to you scream anymore about a life unsure.

Dear God there are some self important tit brushes about today. Behind hand cross eyed whispering tit combs. Grow some or fuck right off.

You know the plan Stan.

You know the riff Cliff.

You’re not that brave Dave.

If you get it in your head that someone is having a go at you, think for a minute why. Think for a second.

How does it feel to be bottom of the bill? I bet you think your winning? Happy in your own swill with a broken branch. Can’t even stay upright long enough to dance.

Cowboy hat twat. That. Broken biscuit bellend, don’t pretend you’ll ever mend because you’ve been broken all your life. Little lost prat, twat. No magic in you. Never has been. Cheap and cheerful live on your name shame. Like a lot of your kind. Blind deaf and thick unless it’s sucking your wit and even then you end up smashing that to bits.

And peaceful. Never had any have you? Whatever you have lost you deserved it. All of it. You give nothing, you get nothing back. That. Twat. Don’t make me beat you with words you couldn’t dream of spelling correctly.

I couldn’t be any prouder right now. Of those around me and me myself. I have what I need.

You’ll get what you deserve. And I hope it’s less dangerous than being shot…


‘Hand Held’

fb_img_1472334129549.jpgIt’s so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone….

Nothing prepares us for this. We attempt to ‘batten down the hatches’ and cover our ears. We still see. We still hear. We still feel. We still miss the one thing that made us. Literally. Step back and sit still. You are still loved within the memory. No one can ever take that away. And we shall raise a glarse to you. You. Without her, you wouldn’t be you.

The constant hum of loss provokes a melody. A beautifully crafted cacophony of each and every song you have heard. You hear the rhythm before you have chance to hear the words. And those words can only be your own. Made up of all and everytime you heard that voice. Nurtured and nudged and covered in love, you may miss the warmth of hand held, but the memory provides the melody for the darnce.

If all we are is all we know, then I am happy to be part of you.

I’ve held the hand that held yours. Smiled at tears dropping as today remembered yesterday. Three times long gone yet viciously fresh. All cockle sheds and budgie perched celebration. We know where you are. Not only why but wherefore. Loved beyond love. Tickled bottle drunk over heated hand held self. Today we raise a glarse and think. Today we do no more than shimmy. Cotton wool twist and turn. Star of the sea. Start of you that made me. From Evans above, this is love.x


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