Catch ye later.
...sorry.
I'll see you soon, yeah?
No. That's not formal enough.
It was lovely meeting you, see you
another time!
There it is. Be more enthusiastic.
A farewell should feel personal.
So much for quickness.
Shake hands, offer an one-armed hug,
a pat on the back.
Yes, you may have just met them but
they deserve your respect, don't they?
They were a bit of a ***** to you, though...
That's why I'm being deferential.
So I don't turn out like them.
Wait - so you articulate your words differently?
Speak in a way that isn't you?
It just feels natural.
No, it's a barrier; hurtful to yourself.
I don't feel that pain.
Because it's not real pain.
It's disintegration, the loss
of identity.
The words are unimportant,
it's the tongue that orates them
that matters.
Just -
catch ye later, alright?
1d ago
Jun 3, 2026 at 8:48 AM UTC
Four pound fifty.
Decent price, all things considered
I've been to worse pubs
The head of foam's a bit flat
But do I care?
It's a pint, for fuck's sake -
not a work of art.
Paul's acca didn't come through
at the weekend
and his bird is pissssseeddd
at him.
"That money was meant to go
towards a new wardrobe,"
he mimics.
He itches his brow, laughs it off.
We laugh in jovial support.
Ian got with two women in Eamonn's
on Saturday.
One of them was pretty fit, he remarks.
The other not so much: he was much
drunker at the time he necked her.
Ian's a promiscuous guy - no holds barred
I'd be afraid of him
and his licentious tendencies.
Jay's car is falling to pieces
and he caught speeding last week.
The letter came through his letterbox
You know, with the monochromatic snapshot
And the timestamp.
The anger towards it seems to have stayed
in his chest.
A semi-permanent grimace twitches at the corners
of his lips.
He is not looking forward to paying the fine
or sending his motor in for its MOT.
Darren's body is ****** twenty four years old
and joinery has rightly shafted him.
His back creaks like the houses he repairs and
renovates.
You can hear the gas whisper from his joints as
he gesticulates.
Fighting sobriety sobers his pain.
But he'll be back after the weekend,
with his toolbox and that feigned,
pained smile of his.
Thomas talks of the smart trainers
he bought in the city centre, and the nice watch
he ordered online. Also the Stone Island jumper
he found on sale at some secret outlet.
His wages make ours squirm in comparison.
Reeking of cash.
He'll get the next round in and in some ways,
he's glad to do it.
Back at the bar and the bartender
is arguing with some drunkard who
refutes the four pound fifty cost of his
favourite lager.
"It was four pound twenty a fortnight ago!"
he slurs with an old dog's tongue.
I sigh.
The bartender throws up a frustrated hand
and tends to my order.
A four pound fifty pint.
I sigh again.
1d ago
Jun 3, 2026 at 8:33 AM UTC
Wake, **** shower
Dressed, brekkie, teeth
Trainers on, ticket in trouser pocket
Couple tenners in the wallet
Rung the pals
Eamonn's in a hour?
Suits me.
Lukewarm pint - like pish
I need a pish
Stinking toilets; urinals a pig's trough
Those yellow foam pellets
Wrinkled and reeking
I'd rather *** myself in retrospect
Back to the table I go
And another pint...
**** I can hardly read my watch
Scan the ticket/Didn't work/What?
Doing it the wrong way
*****
Do it right this time
Past the turnstile and into the belly
Of the beast
Allez, allez, allez!
Semi-pro players, dribbling like babies
And rolling about like them too
Woah: the kids in the stands these days
What happened to the proper casuals, ay?
I think it's time for a pie
Maybe a Bovril?
Second half/Head's spinning
Some boy in the lavvy, gave me -
A - line of... **** knows.
Head's sppiinnnningggg.
What a game by the way
OFFFFFTTTT - Paulson scores a peach!
I could kiss his ***** right now
Some man.
The headache tomorrow's gonna be a killer
Should've went home after the match
**** that
Party time: top of the league, we deserve it
Old codgers, young boys alike
Cheering with euphoria
All the way back to town.
Jan 28
Jan 28, 2026 at 4:27 AM UTC
There I was
At the bus stop
Chewing my nail
Thinking back
Sweet, hearty bliss
Eyes closed
And I am back again.
Dec 12, 2025
Dec 12, 2025 at 6:18 PM UTC
Hands wringing with sweat
The toil of the day
A sun unable to hold its head
Settles down in orbital slumber
Out comes the moon, with its grand, pallid face
The glaze of traffic, the pulp of horns
People clutching at steering wheels,
or snoring on buses
And for what?
A paltry sum
Squandered in a shred of the time
it took to accrue it
What a pity.
How ****** are we.
Dec 2, 2025
Dec 2, 2025 at 5:14 PM UTC
hunkered in a bunker
a slit; tired light spilling through
canvas of dawn tickling my brow
scope overlooking the sea of
hills, fields, copses, rivers.
body flat and still and aware
hairs prickled upright on the nape
forefinger fawning with excitement,
eagerly tempting gunmetal trigger.
when do they arrive, I wonder.
convoy of trucks, greenish goliaths
trundling up ashen road
dust pluming upwards like lung-choke smoke
men, bad men, men with guilt -
- ignored, flung aside; walking astride
the devil.
jaw clamped, crosshairs primed
a face quartered and penetrated
breathe
breathe
trigger. the power of gods.
to smite an enemy down from distance
(Zeus would be proud.)
tick tock, tick tock.
unwitting birds nested in solace. on a dirt road,
a farmer driving a tractor.
breathe
trigger.
blam
blam
blam
blam.
blood hisses from scorched wounds
eye peels away from sight
rifle disassembled.
the driver halts his tractor. he has heard.
so have the birds. no chirping.
so be it.
job done.
mission accomplished.
hurrah, huzzah, all’s well that ends
well.
Nov 27, 2025
Nov 27, 2025 at 5:19 PM UTC
Splayed out on cardboard thin mattress
But a head up in the clouds
Dreaming up pretty excuses
Mistruths: tools of the trade
My personal language
All dialogue founded on disguise
We need not converse with veracity
Or at least, human nature presupposes that
Truth is a commodity
in uncertain times
Why submit and envelop in vulnerability?
So I lie, and lie, and lie…
Nov 22, 2025
Nov 22, 2025 at 6:04 PM UTC
Documented, spoken
The prime identifier.
If they’re not going to get your face
They’ll get your name for sure.
A thing not chosen by you
Passed down from above
Conveyed that first time, in hushed tones
- oh, quilted in a soft blanket,
family gushing and cooing,
then - you. The unshakable title.
We wonder if people judge.
Something as a vapid as a name,
superficial, made up.
Does a name carry the weight of history,
and of bias, on its letter shoulders?
Will we be predetermined?
The vanity of orating your title -
feeling overly proud.
A different name, imagine that!
One fake - or would it be?
For a name floats in the ether
of society: not a tattoo inked on the skin.
Oct 21, 2025
Oct 21, 2025 at 7:02 PM UTC