The stars are out
and you know the way
- Piccadilly, Rusholme,
Withington, Wythenshawe.
These are names that could
freeze your soul in blue
and maybe light a candle
in the dark if you could
only find a spark.
Every building is an open door,
every street an absent flower
that unkown gods collected
long ago when it was raining.
This is England - a promise.
I tell myself - there is a plan.
Just follow through,
be yourself, smile under
this weird constellation and
expect the unexpected,
what you want will happen,
it's just probability
and probability is
always on your side
when you are in Manchester.

III. Memoriams

Along the walls the rich dead have their names,
some brazen, gilt or carved in polished stone.
Large monuments displaying all their wealth,
which, by their widow's orders were set up,
and are the handiwork of chartered men,
whose many hours of toil have brought this show
and made the lasting icons of the dead.
But on the white stone pillars you will find
the epitaphs of far more poorer folk
who have, by their own slow and humble ways,
etched out the record of their bye-gone days.

Veiled from the world the Queen did keep
A '*******' girl who cost her sleep
Though tethered down and kept from sight
Still she shone forth as purest light

A brazen heart (to match her hair)
Beat in the breast of 'maiden fair'
She fuelled her lusts for life with love
Of country, and of God above

She sought no spouse to guide, for she
Was wise enough for her country
As fire and ferver burned within
Ne'er a fool charmed his way in

Her sister, on her ravaged throne
Felt only fire for her betrothed
Yet failed to birth a princely son
And ruled and died in fear, undone

And thus, Bess ruled as Princes do
Absolute, and mightily too
And whether truth, or rumour stark
Purity did become her mark

For she who held her own did learn
By passion, one could easily burn
And thus she led, her heart beholden
To England; and their reign was golden

The capital’s streets weave around me

So tight that it almost looks like I’ve forgotten

but you can’t see what’s underneath

the ember of an emerald

Of vast green fields stretching as far as I can see

Of the white beads dripping down a 99

From the orange September sun



The capital’s buildings tower above me

So high no sun comes through

We seek it out

Like we’ve left it behind here or there

behind this building or that.



The capital’s people stare blankly

Not knowing their howiya from their how are you?

But we won’t hold it against them.

Their blue suits

White shirts

And red socks.



I’ll keep my colour scheme, thank you.

My fields

My ice cream

And my sun.



All that remind me of home.

It's like discovering a ****** island,
inhabited by people who you thought never exist.
It's like finding a city buried by time,
hidden away from present tense.

A busker in front of the Abbey sings
"There must be some way outta here",
and every step I take along the glorious church,
every breath of a air I taste standing on Pulteney Bridge,
every second of the peaceful silence my soul fills up with
tells me
that there's no way out of here.

*28.08.2016

Transient summers,
Forbidden Bluebell fields,
Tough times symbolise the pouring of ales.


Manicured lawns,
Cider drinking Saturdays,
Routine discussions about the sun and rain.


Hijinx down the watering hole,
The great unwashed congregating on Market Day,
Smog penetrating the lungs,
Forlorn eyes, social decay.


Leaders of austerity,
Riddled with oppressive policies,
The tedious endurement of the morning commute.


Sirens cut across Westminster,
A quintessential rave anthem,
Boxing Day sales,
Sheer pandemonium.


Revelling in satire,
And curtain twitching,
Reading racists newspapers,
Disenfranchised youth.


Icky dance floors with raging hormones,
Breath heavy with hops and acrid tobacco.


**** drops and winding waists,
Ladies bathroom, evil eyes exchanged.


Sundays spent hanging,
And Mondays depressed,
Holy communions,
Cladded in your best dress.


Suppressed thoughts,
And baited breath
An Albion filled with oppression and dread.

Summer days
Inconsistent in England
An old train from Piccadilly
To New Mills
Sweating up a steep hill
To a blistering barbecue
Bearing brownies
To share with older brothers
Spaced and complaisant
Sedated in the sunshine
Overlooking the opposing hills
With an ex copper in our coterie
So pleasantly surprised
By the sun and situation
But it's not summer anymore

Where is Peter Rabbit?

There was a patisserie I loved,
everything was shaded with pastel colors.

Awnings carved in gold,
flourishes coming up because it's my favorite garden.
He used to be in that garden, but not anymore.

You had three sweet sisters,
We drink raspberry-flavored tea,
the air was soft and graceful.
We wore dresses with thin lace at the edges,
matching hats with the dresses.
Transparent colors, like our hearts.
We perfumed with violets and art.

Flopsy was kind and generous,
Mopsy was attentive and virtuous,
Cottontail was imaginative and talented,
I was a mix of all.

One day Peter Rabbit came through the door,
touched and disheveled for breaking the code
in the garden.
We look at each other like a second and now I live in that second.
The times you showed up at the door and we never said a word,
that game I liked to ►

Then you disappeared because You wanted to evolve.
I stood there without knowing anything about Peter Rabbit.
Little reality was lost, Peter.
(You wanted that?)

Now we are the greyhound and March hare, playing the one who runs the most.

Why did Peter Rabbit leave?

-Codelandandmore // 0:36 ©