‘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


Walking around stealing smiles off children. Bitterly old and barren within. Couldn’t decide if the smiles real or rented, created for creatures so utterly dim.

Fanciful futures all peppered with shite, from doing so much wrong it starts to look right. Heavy and lustre your lies are exposed by wide open mornings sat in the cold.

Grabbing hands don’t hold me down sending words that don’t resound. Hapless decision spent youthful and broke. Syllables shifting a simian joke. 

Catching it’s catching, like a broken excuse. Promise the earth and it’s left over truth. Happily shared the daring disease and brought morning screaming onto it’s knees.

Blood on my hands and a taste in my mouth. Jumping the gun as the sun’s heading south. Clipped and staccato and patiently dull. Pass me my memories, my conscious is full.

Used up and tepid, that lost little love. Screaming and dreaming dripping scorn from above. Virtually empty but full to the brim with precision derision and my second skin.

Grateful for nothing yet happy to be helpless and faithful and stuffed full of glee. Grabbing the world by the hair yet again. Gritted and pitted your teeth through the shame. 

‘Thank You, I Don’t Like It’

A few points I’d like to make. Already thought this way before the event of cowardice on Monday. And I don’t want a discussion about it. As I have said in a previous post, I write, you read. 

The Koran is based on the Old Testament. As is the Tora. All written by scribes employed by the wealthy. To control the masses. Pattern emerging…

I really want the ‘news’ providers to stop playing clips from Monday. Everytime I hear that shithouse press his button, I hear the screams of last minutes. Lost last minutes of people who have a baring on my life and the ones I hold dear and love intensely. It must be fucking annoying beyond belief for those closer to. Stop it.

Manchester United. To be honest, and I can’t actually be anything else, it doesn’t matter if they sang a song in the dressing room which didn’t ‘fit’ the sombre mood of its hometown. It matters that they won. For them. For their millions of fans around the world. Sure, whoever instigated the song should get a kicking and some abuse next season, but I have seen mates comment on it like it’s the worst thing that’s happened this week. It really fucking isn’t. Trust me on this one. I really am not arsed what MUFC do as long as it helps MCFC out in any way in the competitions we appear together in. And to re appropriate a Scottish Scouse legend:

‘Football. Life and death? It isn’t as important as that…’

I have already complained through the relevant channels and will continue to. It might not make a difference in the long run but I’m not prepared to sit on my already flat hands and not do anything. Complain. Make yourself heard. By any means possible. It’s in us all. Create. Produce. Help. And most of all, fucking love. Wherever you think this world is going, show someone you love them, before you reach the destination on your own.



‘What are you thinking?’

‘I’m thinking of you’

‘I only wish that that were true’

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

‘Do I look that thick?’

‘Here’s my cat I hope it fits’

‘How can you be so sorry and glib?’

‘Years of constraint and a smile on my grid’

‘If now was forever, what would you do?’

‘I’d spend it tightly wrapped up in you’

‘When You Try & Clear Your Mind’ (part two)

Marveling madness makes much mistakes

Never now not near nowhere

Obstacles obscure oddly old obsessions

Perfect peace pretends principle passes

Queer quality quite quietly quits

Ring right rich repaired reserve

Stupid salient soft speciality surprises

Tender tricks taken twice today

Ullesyes understood undone ultimately underneath

Victory vanishes vapid velour velocity

Wednesday wished weaknesses well within