Monster and a fool.

Supine

2011-07-11T16:03:00.003+01:00

Suppose acityscape supine,

voyeurthrough the skylight cracks

to lofty townsenclosed in pine.

Sip the silverpond water

plug her gills and drown the daughter

in a stagnantbedside glass

Through gaps inblinds street signs flare nightly

and glare onvacant side roads

of cycle routes throughbending time.

Treading the sand ofa broken hourglass,

Filling the consciousin syrup sweet honeycombs

now filed-away in boneencased archives

Split skin-tissue growinganew

and nightly birdsthat carry seeds

and send thehumming bees to pollinate you

Lucid succubus, atrain departing

the way you partyour hair revealing

a telling smile ofsadness known.

Painter and DeadCurator

2011-06-08T02:24:00.005+01:00

Caught a ride with a mannequin

who only wanted head.

Ran away at the next service station

and now she wants me dead.

Got a date with a waxwork model,

wrote her number with a melted candle,

I burned out fast, we couldn't last

she had too much wick to handle.

Walked the halls with an art collector,

had to stay behind his rope,

laughed when frisked me for donations

he didn't know what i'd just smoked.

The gallery had cream carpets

forensics found no speck,

because I politely took my boots off,

before i'd stabbed him in the neck.

Put the keeper on my shoulders,

with the scissors still in his throat,

sat him in the passenger seat,
pissing blood like a sacrificial goat.

We went for a ride in his convertible,

I let him do the gears,

couldn’t hear my rock n roll music

over a passing school bus tears'

I can hang what I want on the walls now,

so I thought we'd catch a movie.

I left him on the floor of the theatre

he’s just food for popcorn worms.

Death of Math Revisited

2011-06-03T01:00:00.003+01:00

Lying at the foot of the bed

thinking of the notches in your wooden spine

and how they looked so fine all in a line.

To be yours to keep

now three months down the lies

seems mountain steep

A slept in t-shirt weaved from defeat

Left a memory apple sweet

But how can I forget

when I’ve seen your skin.

I’ve seen the death of math.

The Dream Terminal.

2011-06-02T19:53:00.005+01:00

I turnfrom you,

a softfade out to orange hue.

My brightbeige cell lit wall to wall

by silver midnightdisco ball.

Joyous wingedhopper,

your jellyworms in beak

you cansing sweet dreams away,

just learnto let me sleep.

Now clearthe room of lounging darkness,

peekingdawn through blinds departed,

making wayfor unstoppable morning,

whereloathing terminates.

Great invaderlicking brick

from eastto long cast west.

Railed marauderwith engines burning

moves earthpast fly-tipped wool.

Stationaryanger,

drawinghateful spires with snapped pencils,

paradisein mind, still love and longing

leaving revelations behind.

Here, Centralia.

2011-06-02T00:47:00.002+01:00

High winds twosided ocean sky flooded mind

With perfect blue or maybe you
Flora, forget me not corner eyes,
plane crashes at the bottom of the garden,
high-mast view blockers whip in the gaps
I see the private jet that races to beat its sonic crack.

I look up witheyes rolled back

Into fleshyshutters sealed.

The white hotlight flowing

through thinlystretched skin.

I think of theshotgun sucking cream walled paradise

where I letyou own me and disown me,

that stillstands downtown

as a testamentto hurt.

There willcome a day

When I torchthe tower

and fire will be my master.

Hot Panorama II

2011-06-02T00:45:00.003+01:00

Starts with soft alt rock daydream
pitching me their sonic ideals
speaking their youth direct
like arrow true straight road trips.

Bored like a child king,
boxes within boxes, full of white rooms
flashes of purple dust open breaking thoughts
that crash wave-like on my synaptic shoreline.

Out on the neighbour's deck, words but little worth
Cloud watching, pluming and billowing.
Drowsy, day-fever, sickly room spinning
Mothership hums; slow moving mammoth.

Now cast a smile like a mine collapsed,
cast a thought to Centralia
methane, chlorine, mustard gas
The town that burns for a thousand years

Out-roads
Only out-roads.

Hot Panorama

2011-04-26T19:55:00.006+01:00

Sealed the nesting birds in the eaves

and listened to them die by night,

while we slept our hot sleeps

and let guilt become the room.

Childhood swept away, now

like hair in a barber shop,

like ephemeral blossom in the burning solar heat,

like a grilled fly spattered against the radiator.

Those days so rich and beautiful and dreamlike,

like infinite butterflies iIn my sick stomach,

burst to shatter this wide sheet glass

and smash this hot panorama.

Halycon

2011-04-16T10:14:00.005+01:00

Collared by a halcyon claw

the words “it doesn’t matter anymore”

now wretch inside my craw

and stab like whispering blades

inside the kitchen drawer. Baby,

you’re autonomous

You redefine monogamous

by saying you just want to be alone for a while,

well that was polite

I know you’re clothes still sit in piles

while I cramp the floor

and twitch a while.

While some ~~fuck fucks~~

and you spit smiles.

My minds had time to be shattered

and to be thawed,

I console myself,

conceal my health,

and burn a thousand smoke filled straws.

Eastern Riser, Western Sinker

2011-04-09T23:16:00.001+01:00

Today I saw white blossom on the trees.
Last night time was strange,
I did strange things,
I dreamt of rats
And in the morning I pieced together the small square tiles of time.

Now on the last train
a horn to pierce my crushing skull
We lost the trail of the western sinker
As I listened to the soldiers swear
And talk of the tour
And at each station crowd the door
to smoke and rattle cans
and pass round pills
and show off the rounds they stole.

Five years on
That round is lodged in the back of his skull
as his wife flinches in the kitchen
and his baby shrieks in the cot.
I change at the next stop,
But the train runs on,
Parallel lines forever.

Passing trains.

2011-04-09T00:15:00.001+01:00

Passing trains you and I
Passing, smashing red trains
With fog lights, with foresight
With eyes like some bright child.

Good Eye

2011-03-05T18:59:00.002Z

Could you spare me the good eye
Could I keep your long skull
Beady-eyed, feathered
Twig-legged, wading bird
Who brings no baby
No stork, just stalker
Wet-dweller,
Tethered to the brook,
Weathered wing span,
Flow rider
Bring your bombs
Rain your death
Air-striker
Moss-sucker
Marsh-walker
Bring your beak
Stroker
Bring your beak
Stalker
Leave your feet
Fly low.

5DoorsOpen

2011-03-01T17:04:00.010Z

Yellow haze

another dry earth day,

in a half dozen weeks,

green paint flecks off iron gate

water runs down broken path

water butt, hose pipe ban

long dry grass

spit black bugs

skim-skate surface

dragonfly hover

aunts allotment

basket of picked peas

strawberries, pallet

low bronchial hum

of pigeon coup

carbonated bubbles

in a fire-red can

passenger seat wound way back

five doors open,

radio frequency,

sun visor,

hot rooftop

of brown ford orion.

Harvest,

Wet brow

Waves break on my forehead

Panting dog

Melting,

Park trees in the distance

Not a thought in my head.

Reservoirs

2011-02-16T19:06:00.006Z

The last I heard from you

left me seething.

You split my skin

and sucked my mind,

still writhing,

still haunting,

the godless terrors

of this dreaming heathen.

In time you’ll see,

It’s not all you,

It’s sometimes me.

Stay home

practicing your smile.

Your cracked ribs,
Your smashed limbs

Your sunken scars,

You save your tears

in the reservoirs.

You think in black and white,

fuck your film noir.

You could not know the ecstasy

the eternal bliss
felt within me

and in twenty years

you might surface

as a memory

and I won’t weep for you
and I won't keep for you

but push you back under

and you can drink
from your reservoir.

Zweifel (Doubt)

2011-02-08T22:59:00.001Z

The grey spree,

Thrust in the speer

and measure the depth of water

In a weir of doubt.

In the king’s catacomb

In the flooded corridors

In the black smoke of burning books

In smashing down the wall

on the streets

dancing with whores

Perpetual reinvention

Now the people are free

But for how long is now?

Drop

2011-02-01T12:52:00.007Z

Haven't tied the knot
I'm gonna drop you baby
Huey's going in hot
I'm gonna drop you baby
He's stealing from the cot
I'm gonna drop you baby
while Charlie's smokin pot
I'm gonna drop you baby
Well we lost but thanks a lot

Acid Dropping,
Spitting M16,
United States Marine.

The Death of Math

2011-01-26T00:23:00.007Z

I was thinking
maybe just one thought,

a pure, uninterrupted

lucid sleep.

After all I need

is water and sleep

and that blood in your face,

explains the coldness in your feet.

A moment of clarity,
a grim reality.

Not in a notebook on a bus

But lying at the foot of the bed

Thinking of the notches

in your wooden spine

And how they looked so fine

All in a line

You’re the girl who leaves

the t-shirts smelling sweet

and as much as I want

to work it out

take chalk to board

and scratch it out

and dust away

all your doubts

I’ve seen your skin,

I’ve seen the death of math.

Beneath Me

2011-01-19T18:52:00.000Z

A last gasp

I hold the raft

and the water’s deep beneath me

and I see that you’re no longer with me

A mountain top

thousand foot drop

and the ground drops away beneath me

and I see that you’re no longer with me.

Eyes wide now

Feeling a little heavy

And the cars drive on beneath me

and I see that you’re no longer with me

An ache,

Awake,

No more mistakes.

And the buildings small beneath me

And the steps descend behind me

And the doors ahead are closing

And nobody sees

And nobody hears

and now you are here with me.

Eleven

2011-01-17T11:08:00.000Z

Eleven in the morning,

awake to see,

the mourners walking.

Carrying their coffee,

Just in time,

To save the day.

The Temp

2011-01-14T17:25:00.002Z

A temporary fill,

all I needed

to make me sleep

but now it’s gone

I need it full time.

I swear I’ll never sleep again,

I swear I’ll never sleep.

Architects

2011-01-14T14:35:00.003Z

Build architects
to build a wall
To keep you

from keeping away.

Exile

2011-01-11T22:37:00.001Z

Things are a mess,

You could of guessed,

I like that dress.

I don’t want to quit
you don’t know the half of it.

Lead

2011-01-11T16:18:00.001Z

Today hangs heavy,

Another one to bury,

A hook, I shook

You threw that look,

The one that cuts the wrists of many.

Janus

2011-01-01T14:14:00.002Z

Dead fir out the door,
it’s needles spread about the floor.
The fallen branch,
The carrion to the woodlouse,
The doors,
The Ins and outs.
Under the pale cadaver,
Beneath black earth and leaf,
I dream in monochrome,
a bleak and godless sleep,
of a foetal orchid,
its shoots snaking through corpses,
roots tucked up to its chest.
Through the tunnel we go,
pages falling from the calendar,
forgetting all we know,
and handing over,
to the new.

A Year of Tuesdays.

2010-12-26T12:48:00.014Z

Boxing Day,

I’ve seen your blue-grey.

Flat the grass

that grows under snow.
Yet still it grows,

unseen
a deep-set green,
beneath
a mouth without teeth
a branch full of beaks

that sing
and tweet
and peck
the fruit beneath their feet.
If seeing is believing
then how can I know

what's already written
beneath the snow.

Knightskye

2010-12-20T00:17:00.001Z

Shut out the lights,

Blow all the bulbs,
lick your finger-tips
and squeeze the wick

I want to see the stars again

and the shadows on the moon

mushrooming out from my eyes.

untitled unfinished unrest

2010-12-12T17:36:00.004Z

A gored matador.

A Columbian speed boat.

A heron.

Closed blinds,

folded bus tickets,

bass lines.

A seed of doubt,

A Ring-side bout,

Black ice.

Nothing nice

to say, I’ll see you soon.

Twenty four hours in the library

A smashed phone box,

dirty water in the weir.

A Broken watch,

Scuffed shoes,

Whiskey blues,

Tesco’s closed,

Split fingers,

And a broken nose,

Boiler on the brink

pans in the sink

No sleep.

Facebook chat,

the Neighbours back,

Still no sleep.

An empty cinema,

A bad review,

Car sickness,
Broken lighter,
Gas ring,

Confrontation,

Love,

pro-creation.

Life.

Death.

All the rest.

REST REST REST

Still no sleep.

Grey Area.

2010-12-12T16:51:00.001Z

I had this notion of fixing

Everything broken.

I thought of calling you

A state,

or ignoring you

Too late.

The room is large

The world is small.

Eres el único, nadie más se compara.

Shades in the shade.

2010-12-09T12:31:00.004Z

Fuck the snow-blind

Id rather be home-bound

In 9-WATT yellow heaven.

Moth in flames.

2010-12-06T17:40:00.001Z

Drawn in close

exhaling ghosts

in swathes.

But if I can’t have it,

Then you can’t have it,

That’s what I’m burning to say.

You draw me close,

exhaling ghosts,

In swathes, wrapped up today.

I speak, I leak,

I drink and dream.

That’s what I’m burning to say.

When you’ve already left,

It’s no use.

No use when you've already left.

I guess I’m burning to say,

I guess I’m burning,

moth in flames.

Depth.

2010-12-03T04:27:00.005Z

This empire of angst.

The depths

The deep deep depths.

There’s space below,

If not above.
The depths

The depths

The deep deep depths.

Sleep through

wake in our beds

The depths

The deep deep depths.

Freeze/Thaw.

2010-12-02T18:36:00.005Z

First of the month

best of the bunch

freeze-thaw and fire.

Ready for the melt

Nothing will help

been ready since fall.

Silence is my friend

Cars are my friends

People aren’t my friends.

First of the month

Best of the bunch

Freeze-thaw and fire.

multiplug, flare and fire.

2010-11-27T03:22:00.002Z

Around six when the boiler kicks in

I turn over to see the orange glow

on the standby light of a multi-plug.

Glow like the dying embers of a fire

with a soft comforting warmth.

The sun is up, I think.

I peer through the blinds

and shudder at the frost.

Brief disagreement,

a soft crawl back to bed.

maybe, of course.

2010-11-27T03:01:00.003Z

Maybe,
I'm a culmination of all my mistakes
and yours.
Of course I am,
that explains a lot.

Breakthrough

2010-11-25T19:26:00.003Z

Took the day off

and wasted it

on thoughts of nothing.

I drank my coffee

and crashed again

and again.

Everything gonna be okay,

or at least

that’s the plan.

I’m on the verge

of a breakthrough

I can feel it.

Forget, forgot, forgotten.

2010-11-22T16:36:00.003Z

First he forgot her name,
then he forgot her face.
When she could take it no more
they took him away,
face pressed against the glass,
speeding from her life.

strange strangers and stranger friends.

2010-11-21T00:27:00.005Z

I often wondered

whether we really were friends,

or just two strangers

who knew each other.

What I’m here to fix and what I came to break.

2010-11-18T19:00:00.004Z

I thought of you today
and how you watched our city
fall to the sea.

Don’t you see,
what I’m here to fix
is what I came to break?

From the wasteland,
From a sky of fire,
From the brook,

A thousand stories
of metal and glass
grow up

To block the sky,
'til I can no longer see
those birds pitch and yaw.

On the city steps
I’m passed by voids
of hollow eyes and black, long coats.

and all I want to be
is alone
if not with you.

Repeat Repeating.

2010-11-18T18:58:00.000Z

I woke up this morning

and knew I was dead.

Everything was real,

nothing was different.

I’d been led to believe,

In this life,

the good guy wins.

But now I’m not so sure.

Coffee house counters

and close encounters

and all the places

I re-encounter.

Everyday repeat repeating.

The ferryman of porter brook.

2010-11-04T13:28:00.001Z

I cross between two cars
past stalker lee
and porter brook.
The flow and fall,
The flow and fall.

A shoal of leaves
caught in the metal mesh,
of an upturned trolley.
Dead rats,
Dead rats.

At night I can hear the ferryman’s ore
parting the water
lapping faintly against his raft.
Underworld,
Underworld.

Flowing beneath you as you dream.

untitled

2010-10-21T19:49:00.000+01:00

I could never hold a gun,
the most destructive thing I've got's a pen.

You’ve met your match.

2010-10-20T17:12:00.002+01:00

He coughs
and she sneezes.
In some lecture theatre,
right down in the bunker,
and she says something like
“You are so crazy sometimes”
and he says something more like
“Yeh well, I guess you’ve met your match.”

Oktober (draft)

2010-10-15T02:06:00.000+01:00

Autumn swings in the gallows
of a thinning apple tree.
A blaze, all red, yellow and golden
rains fire on the brown earth.

Watch my last breath
ascending against the backdrop
of a gathering crowd.
The hanging fog.

Am I not permitted to die,
but stay evergreen?
At the last,
I am animated.

In the crisp October air
all confessional
I swing from the gallows
of a thinning apple tree.

The Kraken.

2010-10-04T19:56:00.004+01:00

So intense a dream,
of squid-like twistings,
cinematic in movement,
and fully enveloping in presence.
Tentacles that arch and release
and channel through tunnels,
and slide in open ridges.
Whipping by inches from you.
The panic that substitutes
this pseudo-aquatic fun is incomparable
to any pre-conceived reality
and it’s scale beyond our earthly perception.

Now struggle as you might,
and well you might struggle,
as you are paralyzed
and enclosed in folds of flesh.
The kraken turning you at it’s centre,
before crashing down
in high waves of suffocating skin.
The doctors will try and save you
from the belly of this beast.
They will come from miles around,
with pipes and tubes
to suck out the foul sludge and marine waste,
and they might well take knives,
to this pulsing tumour,
and cut you free.

All this effort,
only for you to wake and find
those waves are a duvet,
and that which was restricting you,
were a composite of polyester
and cotton arms stretched out
to choke you where you lay.

My Ghost is Back.

2010-09-17T19:46:00.000+01:00

Faint-hearted junkie
Who can only think In whiskey
when I’m half submerged,
like the pond frog,
half submerged.

To my last medusa,
stoned again,
there’s snakes on your arms
growing in your hair
and crawling behind your eyes.

A glazed gaze
and I remember when,
and you make me wish,
we could go back to then.
Six months have gone.

The ghost is back,
to take my sleep,
and steal my hours,
all my work undone
and strewn across the floor.

I say something like,
we could have had it all,
Shoot her and she falls
then put it to myself.
My ghost is back.

Haste is the mother of imperfection.

2010-09-06T22:52:00.000+01:00

Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.
Haste is the mother of imperfection.

The Last Day of Summer.

2010-09-02T19:01:00.000+01:00

I start each year by dying.
My inclination split and core rotten.
Crush that fruit beneath your boots
Will you pull me beneath
And feed me to your roots?

I wont mind,
Just as long as you promise me
to grow those lovely red apples.
I can stay inside you all winter
and teach you to polish each one.

Till I have nothing left to give
then when summer comes
I will fall away
and learn to grow again.

Katabasis

2010-07-12T17:52:00.000+01:00

Orpheus the lyre
He can’t cheat death
any more than I can

go without breath.
(Won’t take my head.)
It’s Hades ladies,
You’re the poet’s girl.
Not anymore,

never were.
(Underworld.)
Thick thoughts run black ink.
The nightly descent,
Squid like and twisting
I can take you down.
Show you the other side,
I’ll be you’re guide,
Right down to my wreck.
Now don’t look back.
She’s no Eurydice,
I’ll go to Hades,
(for a roll of the dice,)

Just to save myself.
Now don’t look back,

You’re not even following.

The blast that killed the summer

2010-06-29T00:35:00.000+01:00

The shadows that flickered
on the dashboards of cars,
were cast by the trees
that braced themselves,
for the blast that could be seen
in the ripples of nearby ponds
where the fly fishers floats bobbed.
On the faces of the dog walkers
in the dog walking park,
and in the car park,
where the dog walkers cars were parked,
by the time the dogs began to bark,
It was already too late to start-
The series of events that could of stopped
The lethal blast,
Of methane gas
That left a crater,
where the houses had been.
And for always and forever
Those infamous names
Would be synonymous with pain,
For the family’s of the victims of
the blast that killed the summer.

Barcelona Stray (draft)

2010-06-29T00:10:00.001+01:00

A scene.
Spanish sign's green hue
of late night barbers with dull razors
and all against the wall
are rows of dust covered scooters.

Look to the porch above.
Where friends throw conversation
And empty wicker chairs,
And glass-top tables
are soaked in purple light.

Across to the balcony,
thin veiled curtains block little light
a four poster bed and pure white sheets
and movement beneath them;
she stirs to sounds of up-town.

I lean like those bikes against the wall.
Darkness across my shoulders.
I am the Barcelona stray
and in the heat of this English night,
I am there.

My halls are that apartment,
the trams echo that city tremor
and down the corridor speakers sing
to my weeping guitar
as chatter filters beneath doors.

The air tastes the same.
I am that gaunt feline,
Who moves between shadows.
I have strayed.

These brown lungs

2010-06-17T02:12:00.000+01:00

If she’s the cable car,
Then I’d rather hike.
My profile picture got 45 likes.
Got a hundred knockouts,
never been in a fight.
Then I found these brown lungs
and someone turned on a light.

I’m the comeback king,
and I swear to tell the truth.
What do you mean who am I?
Who the fuck were you?
Never been much into gear,
my words come out fresher,
when my heads still clear.

So I’ll pen it down,
you pass it round
and then let me know
when it’s time to rebound.

Pearl House

2010-05-23T02:13:00.000+01:00

Most of us didn’t pick you,

though I feel like you picked us.

We were out on our own,

doing it our way,

the city our playground,

to roam for a day.

We prowled at night,

From Propaganda to Pounded,

From Soyo to Cav,

Wherever we landed.

From the hubs to plug

to bungalows and bears.

After all was said and drunk,

No one cared where.

These months passed us by,

and our friendships bloomed

And others fell

like the can wall, doomed.

In Pearl house,

Christmas came early

There was secret Santa,

And stuffing and turkey.

When we look back,

At all the rivalries and bitching

no one will care

what was said in the kitchen.

So when you feel down,

Think of all the stolen milk,

the aftermath of parties,

and the pots in the sink.

Smell the KFC,

drift through your window.

Think of 4am fire alarms,

And high times in room 35.

In the morning when the Primark truck comes

And wakes us with “caution, vehicle reversing”.

Remember it’s “two way traffic,

look both ways”.

It’s the guy with the bagpipes,

And the one who wants a favour.

It’s the woman who sings the hymns

and claims to be our saviour.

It’s the eating out of pans.

It’s ‘who stole my plate’

it’s who gives a damn.

And It’s getting in late.

It’s waking up at 2.

20p’s for the dryer

It’s the number one buffet for you

And its dodging those flyers.

To all those future doctors and Nurses,

Teachers and Preachers,

Lovers, Fighters, Directors and writers.

High flyers, Actors, Engineers and Cooks.

To the next three years of our heads stuck in books.

Think of Valentines,

Think of Halloween,

those who pass us by

On that black and white screen.

those who do not know

what goes on inside

Here’s to Pearl House

One hell of a ride.

locked from the inside.

2010-05-19T17:11:00.000+01:00

Lights on red,

Life on hold.

I miss it all,

The good and the bad.

I’m running for a train

that’s already left.

Searching the shelves

for a book never written.

I’ve got the key

but your locked from the inside.

I’m a speech you’ve already heard

A country you’ve already visited.

I’ve found a new planet

But you’re still on earth.

I’m outside when its raining

Inside when its shining

Untie these anchors

Let me rise high above this city

Throw my organs overboard

They are only ballast

Set me free

Set me free.

Remorse.

2010-05-09T15:55:00.000+01:00

We lie in bed,
like twins in the womb.
See I know your heartbeat,
as I know my own.
I know your skin,
like the streets of my town.
I know every smile
and I know every frown.
My dreams are a place
where you make your home.
And so as I sleep,
I am never alone.

Unravel

2010-05-05T17:29:00.001+01:00

Please read my diary,
look at my things and Unravel me.
I can't think of many things that I've worked on
that have gone the way I'd hoped they'd go.
In this long trial sometimes things unravel
You can only unravel the things that give residue
Like a Broken Record
All these things that we’ve tied together
keep unravelling apart
And this prediction unravels coming true
An Inconvenient Truth
Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all
you know on earth, and all you need to know.
The view that truth is correspondence to a fact.
Fact, an event known to have happened,
Truth, the verified fact.
and truth is worth seeking.
But the truth is stuck
As we concede defeat in this battle for truth
The only way out is to allow yourself to feel these things.
There is a strangely neglected no man's land
that sits between maps
you pay no attention, disregard and slight
so here we lie in our final state
neglect the skies, neglect the night.

Turn on the Bright Lights Review

2010-05-05T17:16:00.000+01:00

Words and Images Portfolio - Journalism Piece

Review of Interpol’s debut album “Turn on the Bright Lights”.

Released in 2002, Turn on the Bright lights was the debut for New York based band ‘Interpol’.It catapulted their cult underground following to international critical acclaim. While the album only reached 101 and 158 in the UK and US album charts respectively, the album was named by many as the best debut of 2002 and made many leading critics Top 10 albums of the decade. The album was also recently named 8th greatest album of the decade by NME readers. So what’s so special about an album that couldn’t eve make the top 100 in the album charts?
The album cover poses more questions than it answers. Depicting an empty billboard, the red and black colour scheme creates tension and the lighting and the image have an unspoken symbolism about them, leaving the listener to their own interpretation. The “less is more” approach to the album art highlights the bands views on minimalism and simplicity. There is a real sense just from the cover that there is something important within.
The opening track entitled “Untitled” is a dramatic and brooding piece. The song creates space and atmosphere, encapsulating and summarising everything about the album in 3 minutes and 57 seconds. The song is operatic and awe-inspiring, yet it doesn’t feel overproduced. Lead singer Paul Banks keeps the vocals to a minimum. The listener understands that the vocals are just another instrument and the role the lyrics play are no more important than the other instruments. This is true of any Interpol song, each part of each song is treated with the same importance creating a unparalleled balance in their song writing. The choice of title for the song shares the same theme as the album cover in the sense that the listener is allowed to make up their own mind.
The second track “Obstacle 1” is a totally different affair to the first track. This is where we really get thrown into Paul Bank’s lyrical labyrinth, with no points of reference we run headfirst into walls of powerful, cryptic and ambiguous lyrics. Some may be deterred at this point, but this is where perseverance pays off. Intelligent and mesmerising song writing will engross any listener who is willing to continue. You feel as though your being washed out into the ocean and you don’t even try to fight it, letting the waves wash over you. Before taking you last gasp the third track pulls you into a lifeboat. “NYC” opens up new doors to the listener. Paul Banks deep baritone tell us that “New York Cares”. On the surface the song seems a dark place, but as the song builds we learn that we are not alone, Paul sings “it’s up to me now, turn on the bright lights.” There is a new sense of hope and the listener has a newfound outlook.
With long verses, track four, “PDA” allows the listener to delve ever deeper into Paul Banks cryptic world, featuring one of the few examples of harmonies by Lead guitarist Daniel Kessler, Banks asks more questions than he answers inviting us to stay over. “we have two hundred couches where you can sleep tonight.” The fifth track “Say Hello to the Angels” is filled with a sexual energy and suggestive lyrics. The following track “Hands Away” is poles apart, and my personal interpretation of the song is that it depicts a housewife in suburban America, the long instrumental sections remind us not to forget about the opening track. As does the following track “Obstacle 2” the title suggesting some link to the aforementioned “Obstacle 1” as a listener we are reminded that this album is something as a whole, not just a collection of single tracks.
The eighth track “Stella was a diver and she’s always down” signals the beginning of the end, it has a confessional tone, filled with pain regret and admiration. Psychological and menacing, Paul Banks shouts out the lyrics to keep up with the throbbing bass and pace of Sam Fogarino’s drums but his words carry as much clout as in any other song. The instrumental ending to the song is typical of Interpol and we now know what to expect of the band going into the final stage of the album. The penultimate song “The New” allows the Band’s Bassist, Carlos D, a subdued but intricate Bass line to open the track, throughout the song the Bass carries the song, it is arguably atypical of the bands other work. The ending of the song has the feel of a big finale and the album could easily end here.
Going in to the final track, the big finale feel of the previous track makes “Leif Erikson” feel like an encore, we have high expectations and it really delivers. The song bleeds emotion and feeling and the listener feels there is something that puts this band on a higher level. Turn on the Bright lights doesn’t waste a second, everything is important and nothing is left unsaid. The album is a thought provoking, awe-inspiring, masterpiece.

2010-02-22T01:33:00.000Z

Hands and feet bound.

Incapacitated and sinking.

Writhing sick-smug.

Somewhere inside I flick the button.

Breathing reality

then sleeping-off the poison.

Perspective

2010-01-31T17:12:00.000Z

To you, turning brow of welded metal.

To be safe in the knowledge

that with every fall a rise will follow

must satisfy you deeply.

This to you, tall ship of high street Ocean,

whose woven steel warps in perspective,

and spokes speak of a thousand passengers.

With your lights that burn with celestial glory.

But it is the streetlamps that guide us home.

With warm orange glow across our necks

And backs and shielding us both from shadows.

Here’s to the sweet moonlight, he who dances slowly

in the puddles and deep wells of our eyes.

Follow me now to the ends of the earth

to the mouth of heaven and sunlight’s birth.

2010-01-31T17:05:00.000Z

Creation. The Makers workshop.

A blueprint for all time and space.

A design unfurled.

Clocks tick endlessly.

Old powers, the great pyramid

New powers, dollar bill, white house.

Moon and Cross too

Religion.

Those who fit the mould,

and those who break it

A jigsaw of broken glass

a mirror pieced back together.

Light forces downwards

and scorches the earth

The background filled with emptiness

almost.

A great white obelisk

fuelled and filled with navigational tools

and star charts

uncertainty.

The smell of oil and sawdust

a map of the past

future and present

Just circles, triangles and lines.

Some people call me the space cowboy

2009-12-07T22:47:00.000Z

September. The year of our Lord 1990. There is a storm brewing on this, the 263rd day of the new decade. There’s a sickly feeling of anticipation and excitement. Thatcher’s reign is coming to an end. Following the fall of the Berlin Wall, both Germanys agree on reunification. In the middle-east, Saddam Hussein demands U.S. networks broadcast his message of peace and love for all the children of earth. It is estimated he is responsible for the deaths of at least 61,000 people. Newspaper headlines still lead with the story of Peter Terry, senior Royal Air Force commander, shot 9 times by the Provisional IRA at his home in Staffordshire. He survives.
Elsewhere in Staffordshire, a child is on its way.
The stint began on the 19th. Wednesday. A trip to the hospital in a new Vauxhall Cavalier. The Mark III Cavalier, which shared its mechanicals with the Saab 900, was available as a saloon and a hatchback, but sadly no estate version was made. Mum had been having pains. The Hospital advised her to go home until her appointment tomorrow. On the drive back home the number one single plays out on the radio. More than 16 years after its release, Steve Miller Band’s “The Joker” had reached number one in the UK Singles Chart. It came about after being used in a Levi's T.V advert and held the record for the longest gap between original American release and being a UK number one. Mum calls in to Tesco to do some shopping. Grandma chats excitedly about the baby to the checkout girl, who stresses the importance of not giving birth at her till.
It’s my grandparents wedding anniversary, the family sits around and enjoys a meal. Auntie Barbara arrives to give them an anniversary card. When Mum tells her that she is in labour, Barbara panics that she will give birth there and then.
The 20th. (Scheduled appointment). Thursday. Contractions. Another couple are waiting to go in. The Doctor induces labour and water breaks over brand new pink slippers. Ruined. Dad stands around sipping coffee, wincing and pulling faces in vain attempts at empathy. He crunches on polo mints and makes a phone call to the Grandparents. The waiting begins. At four o’clock. The family sits agitated eyeing the door like a puppy waiting for its owner to return. Nothing comes. One hour and much pacing, finger taping and coffee drinking later… still nothing. Clocks seem to tick anti-clockwise. To mum’s disapproval dad stands around cracking jokes with the nurses and offering out polo mints. Then at 6.20, the child is born. A boy. The family have waited for hours but are not able to go in. Mum is wheeled out of the room and down the corridor to have a bath and get some rest. She is insistent that I will not leave my Dad’s sight. In fear of me being switched with some other baby, tagged as someone else, stolen, or all of the above. The family catch a brief glimpse of the child in mum’s arms as she is wheeled away.

Remember

2009-11-03T16:46:00.000Z

Remember, Remember,
the fifth of November.
Two months from now
and the year will be over.

So what’s been learnt?
Who has been hurt?
Who spent the summer
covered in dirt?

Who wasted time
looking at stars?
Kept their mouth shut
In the back of friends cars.

Who grew? Did you?
Were you there,
when I found out too?
I grew, that’s who.

Remember, Remember
The fifth of November.
Two months from now
and the year will be over.

Maid of Milk

2009-11-03T16:42:00.000Z

As I was walking in the wood
A man came running through,
He stopped to tell his story
and swore his tale were true.

He sat down upon a toadstool
and told me of his dream.
Beyond the forest imps and satyrs
A maiden bathed in cream.

Somewhere deep in the forest dark;
a clearing in the trees.
A woman baths in a pond of milk
that’s hidden by the reeds.

Once a month the mire would fill
from an udder in the sky.
On the eighth day of each week
her skin the milk would dye.

By now the man had calmed himself
and told me why he fled.
The maiden’s lungs had filled with milk
and now face down was dead.

Quickened Pace

2009-10-15T21:06:00.000+01:00

Quickened pace,
past hotels de-faced.
Wandering through,
the audible sadness,
of a churchyard maced.

Wading through heavy backstreets,
to meet a mate.
Everything else passes overhead,
Like a freight lorry,
full of unseen goods.

To that pre-arranged tree,
where our fingers teem.
and bright eyes beam back,
those resolute smiles,
until daylight elapses.

Until the clock intervenes,
And a lingering pause intrigues.
Then gone again,
slipping away,
with quickened pace.

The Wolf and The Crow

2009-10-15T20:41:00.000+01:00

The Wolf and the Crow

The Wolf holds his muted howl
As not to wake
the solitary lantern
on a dreamy lake.

A Crow perched on the branch
Of a barren tree
A coin tight in its beak
powerless to speak

The wolf eyes the silvery token
astray from the pack
From what I saw I did recall
These words were spoken

Your shiny penny is bright
in this bleak land,
The wolf cries up to the Crow,
Give me your coin.

You may have a coin of your own
The Crow replies
And nods to the moons reflection
in the waters depths

For all the land heard a deathly shriek
The wolf too quick
To leap and splash and nearly drown
But kill the crone

Ripping wildly at the bark
He scales the tree
to consume the bird then
Skulk into the dark