I live for live music, tea and 19th century literature.
I love punk, roots, reggae and ska.
Reduction of dress
In the wake of
Western woman’s ambitions
That stretched further
Than the kitchen.
In the days of
Bum slappers, pinches
And pencil skirts.
The seedy neighbour
Filtered to just black
and white trash.
To the overweight
Remembered for her face.
The scandalous way
Perfection spread over
Pop art and screenplay.
Full with dreams,
An American smile,
And fresh bile.
A purpose flicked fringe,
That were really
Roles, riches, romances,
Stung with bitterness.
I'm Norma Jeane
I had my first fuck at
No love was left
Or taken from me.
It's not enough to
Try and change
The papers hound me
Night and day.
I can't make up for
The lies I've sold.
Nell waits for Jed
But Jed, well he's gone.
Just like James, Joe and Arthur.
Happy birthday to you.
Now pitied pinned on walls
Of drama's next queens.
Of women who want to be
Sugar Kane only
The girl that shivered
Her first night
Through foster homes
Dumped by gaunt biographies.
I woke up in a field!
No socks or shoes,
No phone and a potential bruise
on my left temple.
There's no clouds, no sounds,
No visible vegetables,
No borderline hedge at all.
There's no food or drink.
No drugs, no sex, no race,
no rich nor poor. It's neutral
Like my rented room walls,
With no bluetac marks.
I woke up in a field!
And there's no one else here...
Lines on a page,
They can whisk you away.
Thrill you, chill you,
Comfort and cradle you,
When the world draws out the day.
Lines on a page,
Lost in a blogger's way.
Can give you life, love,
Wanting and imprinting
A message, moral, roles to play.
Lines on a page,
Can do nothing, say something
but stick, stark,
Defined only by a sentence,
Grammatically sensitive but emotionless.
Lines on a page,
Will such you in, wear you thin,
Until your lips are shrivelled,
Old and broken in.
Voice lost in the fray.
I don't know if you've ever noticed
the little ringing, the singing of silence
sitting soundless in the air.
It's like stactic, as I stand below the attic,
Or was once the attic and is now just a
ragged skyline with the faint smell of
petrol and the lasting fraquence of piss.
One hundred years ago this place was
grand, great and smothered in luxury.
The owners then were straight backed
laced and up, tossing back another wine.
Fifty years ago the plumbing went; the electrics too
The house aged, paged with sixteen layers of wallpaper,
each to represent another occupant, one more memento
as the 'you remember that big old house we lived in once...'
Two years ago it was the last resort, the only place,
Aching from walking and carrying my life
I watched it's depressing lurge in daylight.
At night, I crept in, a nest full of mess of someone before.
One year, nine months I grew up
rough, tough and rich with lip.
I became the hunter, gathering meager eats
to feast on in the fireplace.
It'll soon get condemned, and then it'll be the end
Of The house with the history, mystery, creaking in decrepit misery.
The family house of the nobles, the normals and the nowheres.
Wrong place, wrong time.
That's what they say.
But sober, in daylight,
Rape happens anyway.
It's dawn outside, the curtains betray it.
Sun, half risen and groggy, accompanying
The sound of alarm on the bed side.
I sit up, turn the alarm off and yawn.
Eyes are crusted, dusted with sleep.
You're still dozing, mouth open,
Curled up, at one with the duvet.
It's not jealousy, or any kind of envy,
Just wanting to stay, to lay and laze
Hi, I'm Eloquent, the elegant elephant
I sometimes reside by the watering hole.
I find though that times can be digressive
And the company rather aggressive.
Just this morning, whilst I bathed in the sun,
By the spit of water hazed in hot rays,
A monkey addressed another on his
Apparent lack of leadership.
The other, larger in size replied
With a hard crack on the ground
And a loud shout in protest.
As a diplomat in manner and
Larger in size than both trouble makers
I presumed to intrude, not to be rude
I chimed, but would you mind taking
Your disagreement to another patch?
The monkey started and raised on its legs
But, as large as I was, he made only to snatch.
The monkey shrunk back and hooted a little
Backed up, ushering his gang on and was gone.
The lion, grazing in the grass lazily
Raised his kingly mane, tongue loosed,
Eyes drooped, looking directly at me.
He regarded me lightly, I politely
Stayed where I was.
He lifted his chin then, a recognition
Received and he dropped back
Into the grass to dream.
The day was growing hotter,
So I left to retire to the retreat of the trees.
The water kept free of barbarity.
With rolling shoulders, I sauntered away.
I don’t remember when it arrived or when it was hung. I just remember falling in love with that dartboard. It was placed in my charge, hung on the wall in my room.
I remember it’s case: wooden shutters to hide behind as night-time left it alone. Day would come again and I’d whine until he would give in and let me open the shutters to the magical disk beneath. Being nine, I wouldn’t play alone, the darts were sharp. The board was hung between the chalk boards that hide on the inside of the shutters; I remember them smooth and unused. Soon covered in chalky records of score. Two columns, one his and one mine.
We played the afternoon away and before long evening came. Guests to entertain. The board was shut up and I was too left alone. Boredom came before long and I itched for more, the bright face of the board mocked me and my age. I sulked and turned dolls away. The night went on and the teasing got worse. I didn’t mean to do it, it was entirely uncontrollable that I opened the shutters and gave into the play. It was fine at first, I didn’t miss one. But then I did, it hit on its side, against Corey Hanson’s face and clattered against the floorboards.
I stilled, heart gasping, waiting for a sound. It came, a groan on the stairs, each one a footstep, stepped up to my room. He paused against the door frame.
He spoke, I didn’t hear, so consumed with fear. I began a mumbled reply, but his brute force retorted against my cheek and I flew across the room.
I don’t remember what happened to the dartboard.
To what do I owe the honour
Of receiving you so late at night?
The wind grows bold, no longer timid
And howls for dominance of the world.
The trees are wailing, waning and cold,
A dance to this natural despair.
Through Venetian slates, slumberous
Cats protest loudly, leaping out to home.
The window is shut, so there's no chance.
The window is shut so no cause for alarm.
The window is open, I open my eyes again
And there you are, decrepit and old.
I had hoped to be dreaming but
No veil is lifted to see, only these
Age raped fingers reaching,
Taking the very human from me.
The sky breaks, clouds shake
And this time I'm awake
The deformed thing has vanished
A mirror tells no more.
Within the confines of this dank dim time,
Beats the unfathomed heart.
This heart, as is known, belongs to a man,
A man death denied long ago.
To be specific, hinting on the horrific,
This man is skinless and bone.
Behind the caged mouth of this ivory king,
There is remnants of a lover's soul.
In vain of heart it would be to say
This soul is untouched with crime.
But grim lies thick, suffocating this,
smothering his, devoured bliss.
Now a lady there was, of course
Her life was lusted by the sallow and
faded. Her hair tussled down to the stones.
She came in a fluster, with a stormy aroma and
took his head to her breast. A lady she was
In a house by the park, servants at her knee.
The cottage was crippled, riddled with gutter foul,
Too was she to uphold this duplicitous life.
One note, one sound is all it took, for Porphyria
to die. Head drooped, blood loosed and
the man sat alone.
God said no word that night,
But kept the man alive in spite.
No hell for the murderer, only hell for Porphyria.
Her lover, forever, rots in the cellar of history's hall.
Silent house unbroken,
I sit and wonder as time ticks
A slow precession of mind tricks.
The cushions fluffed with precision,
Waiting polite on flourished chairs
Anticipating a back to support.
The tap drips, it always drips,
Like the clock that ticks
On, it's almost time for dinner.
The light fades on November days
But dust remains in static, buzzing
In front of the black blank telly.
Open the fridge and we're running out
Of milk, but there's still juice to drink.
Cold plates are sitting on the shelf.
Six o'clock chimes, the phone shrills,
Barking the stalking quiet away.
It's mum, she's late, a patient relapsed.
The microwave, stands for one minute
Plastic lasagne steams through thin film.
I eat the lot, feeling my stomach rot.
It's seven before she gets in,
The flat's dark, dark down to my room
Where a lamp dims in it's wake.
The window is open, I'm smoking
She's choking and flying off the handle,
the door slams, starting a shudder.
Silence returns, this time it's personal
Time is hiding away, ticking meekly.
The telly goes on, shooing the static away.
It's ten when I go to bed, lights out
And stale smoke on my lips.
She says goodnight through the door.
Virginia Woolf writes like me
all messed and words wirling into
a spiral, a temporal of cobwebbed wisdom
buried somewhere at the bottom; the truth.
With No Doubt, she keeps running
running and running into the black etched
waves, clashing on crocks, rocks, tops of top hats.
Could it be? with little to no direction
there's a map of the sky in that boy's eye?
No never, it doesn't seem to even shatter
the matter of time and space, or time vs space.
Whatever Enstein meant, it doesn't make blind
sense in a novel. The novel looks like Hollywood.
Stretched with 'realism', portraying the 'raw core of
humanity'. humility, the silent killer.
Like a second skin I recognise this sin,
The silent, delicate kind that
Haunts you at night times.
Occasionally it bursts,
Like air popped from bloated plastic,
Blowing off reason in favour of rage.
Looking out from behind blind eyes,
Cocooned in self-vindication,
You give up and run wild.
It wears you thin,
Soaked in violent victory
When you press your thumbs down
And crush his windpipe.
A healthy lifestyle requires the following:-
One dollop of mashed up lies.
Two helpings of painful goodbyes.
Add a pinch of a happy ever after
And that's just your amorous starter.
For main you want a portion of wishes
Marinated in a few of true love's kisses.
To compliment the taste, add some angst
With a dash of parental disappointment.
Simmer for six years.
Then add self-satisfied choices,
Mixed with conflicted voices,
Two tablespoons of self esteem
And one drastically matured dream.
Leave to stand for five years, add salt.
Dessert should be served cold,
Once you're feeling particularly old,
Rolled in a pastry of marital bliss
Topped with a house and infant piss.
This isn't just life. This is an M&S life.
ladies and gents
now lets not pretend
that you know the world
and all that messy tit-tat.
you've seen it all
right now to
the bottomless pit
of gritty shit.
wide open landscapes.
is it sacred?
are you scared?
scared that you’ll wake up
and nothings there?
Defiant against diets,
Vanity is lost on hungry eyes,
Mayonnaise, a comforting haze
dipped in with chips.
Skin deep, light sleep
er, what's in this salad?
Fashioned face like a fancy plate,
Clear skin impeccably kept.
Lavishing locks of crisp dyed hair
Polished off with a bow.
You walk, men talk, about
your arse as you saunter passed.
Those legs, I'd give an arm
for, your razor sharp eyes.
Turning heads, I'll never forget
the feeling of wanting more.
Sometimes I'm angry and cruel,
Because when I watch you, I want you
to be me.
...and then i woke,
only to choke.
Rancid's lined with coke.
room was rammed.
same guy selling ket-
is that a hula hoop in the tree?
old but still cold beer.
Don't drink it, skank!
Daylight makes bright
and drunk words right.
Smiles of the party's peak
Now fuck it,
go back to sleep.
Time rolls around
and around to stop.
Stop here, there, in a strop.
Impatient of patterns.
Shops sell the vintage
At a not so vintage price.
Size 20? Don't be stupid.
Fat days like the communist craze.
It's the forties you click against the floor,
the sixties that you seduce in,
the eighties to emphasise your radical side.
Naughties for your stone-washed conformity.
Wash, rinse and repeat,
Time goes grey.
Wash, rinse and repeat,
Time is scaled in lime.