I’m thinking of The Orb
and the crusty, mucked crystal
of the transition from child to adult,
scored and soundtracked

excoriated by blunt first loves,
first lives lost, tempest tossed,
into oversensitive abysses
from which there’s “Never loving again!”
except after growing and knowing

Lo-fi made it easier and harder
than these cheeky bleeders,
at least, I know my bare cheeks on film
would take weeks to get back from Boots
and not be broadcast to Kuala Lumpur
in seconds

Age beckons
always
in a way we revulse at
but blunder and succumb to

You becomes we becomes us
as no bad thing
but we must honour
our custodian status
and not impose

The stupid vine grows
where it’ll grow,
we demonstrate this
wonderfully

do me a favor aight
when you go switch off the lights

close the door behind
you

pay attention to the lock it
makes a sound pay attention

do me this favor
you gotta do it cause

shadows everywhere
voices everywhere
enemies everywhere

ain't no fun though as
gang colors in the nineties

tag watts
tag berlin
tag harlem

shadows everywhere
voices everywhere
enemies everywhere

for twentyseven years
do me a favor aight?

i've been looking for a brother
i've  been looking for a mother

nobody knows about it
they don't know and they
don't have to

when they interrogate you
about last night
when they ask tell em:

i was asleep at night
as civilians do

no talk about turf
no talk about extortion
no talk about capital crimes

private matters
wat matter is you
lock the door baby

Touring the cities of England and the UK
Back of a transit van, rocking up to anywhere that paid
The brothers Grimm and their trusty cohorts
Bonehead on rhythm, McCarroll on drums, Guigsy up to all sorts

That gig at the Wah Wah, King Tuts to be precise
Glasgow you beauty, **** the next show up in Fife
The man that found them, a mister Alan McGee
A Britpop revolution, all great memories

They came and most failed, that one gig on Top of The Pops
Menswear to Mansun and an array of rank haircuts where the seagulls did flock
We had the trendies in Camden all hanging around on their scooters with parka’s
Noel or Liam and that fella from Echobelly, anything to be famous and get on the telly

But then the times must end and it all turned a little sour
A few trudged on with an album or two, the Manics to Cast and the lyrics from John Power
Patsy and Liam had that cover on the front of Vanity Fair
Draped in Britannia, divorce on the cards, strange how no-one now cares

Good times they were without a worry in the world and a now gone era
Euro 96, Southgate’s miss and those goals from Teddy and Shearer
A time well remembered and days I’d love to see back
If not only for the music but for the not caring and the unforeseen great craic

Not to hate the now as times move on
But a day in the past, served at seventeen and to claim you were the one
Not to be asked I.D. and sneakily drink that Stella
laughing at the bar, king of the blaggers, not to be served again by that same fella

Before the phone and the apps, we used to meet face to face
Girl at the bar, a bit of blarney and a home number to suit, always up for the chase
Do you ring tomorrow and who’s going to answer
Her mum might be alright, but her dad could be a ******!

I couldn’t imagine doing it all again now
Swipe left to say no or right to give it a go
Seems inhuman to me not to spark up a chat
But maybe that’s just me, stuck in past, I’m just old hat.

JJB

taupe is the hue
that comes to mind

when two chords
are played in pairs
four times
which makes eight movements

then the words come
but they don't arrive
or completely appear
they merely peek
from behind the stone wall
of the bass
muffled and shrouded
by some dull amber liquid

it is Kurt
and he speaks of his home
of Oregon
in all of its earthy moisture

and then when the chorus arrives
the spectacle of violins
and the tangibility of his words
is lucid enough to paralyze
and lay to rest

a not-so-special tree
sat on
that not-so-special floor
inside our trailer.

maybe, driving by
mumbling to themselves,
most would call the scene
forgettable, I suppose They
might think it ******,
but

that not-so-special tree
meant everything to me,
meant waking up late,
meant snowmen and might mean sweets,
foil-wrapped chocolate from the belly of our wooden rudolph.
She hung him high.
He hurried home
with kerosene for the heater.

something was for dinner—
fuzzy memory: folding t.v. tray
in front of the box—

I remember melting kisses
carefully with the kerosene

Powder blue adam
Won't somebody **** me please
I miss the nineties