Liverpool

Rules and regulations or even mere social rules serve to curb us and my meaningful words can never be curbed. I think of you and only you.

As we sat in Korova in Liverpool I could not take my eyes off you, those dark eyes as she chatted. I could not look away from her animated mouth, her lips astound me. I was lost completely in the infectious good spirits of everything she had to say sometimes without even hearing the words she actually said.

I don't deserve her.

I hate it when someone says 'do you like her then'? Like her??!! What an insult. How can anyone just like her? What kind of person could just like her? What kind of person could not be completely fulfilled by her? I know I am. I'm still quite astonished really about how I got into this. It was step by step, with my eyes wide open I saw the whole thing so clearly and even my condition. I still maintain that there's been no improvements. I'm still what she makes me.

Light in pocket but rich in heart would probably best describe me at that moment and I do genuinely believe that our hearts alone can give us happiness. I get to see her today and I don't have another wish for the next 24 hours. Everything is lost in this one anticipation!

She sometimes reproaches me for my excessiveness but how else could I possibly be around her? As we sat innocently on a bus I could not help but be in awe of her. I wish somehow I could say all of this to her face but for some unknown reason I sat there restless biting my tongue thinking of how to say it.

I sit alone, longing for her even now. I am excited to to see her again. I have not exaggerated any of this or over sentimentalised it. I have told it all in my own terms. This love, loyalty and passion are therefore no fragments of my imagination . Yes it has happened to me. We will be together for a long period - well that's certainly my wish. Today, as I write this all down, all is quiet within me, you can see that by my handwriting, I am not scribbling.

The minor indifference's come between magical times and the most cherished hours are spent in her arms. My love I scrawl at dawn and I cannot wait for patience.

Come back to me - I live in joyous anticipation of your return.

I will never look at Liverpool the same again.

I've Been Busy But I've Missed You

I'm becoming so immune to my own feelings that perhaps I ought to give in. She is all that matters and all that ever will. I'm only happy when she is here and she can lead me from the dark. My whole being has been crying a thousand silent prayers just to see her again. That ruffled 60's black skirt and the black and white stripey top with the flower in her hair - somehow I will never forget it.

I find myself craving the need to get intoxicated and write poetry . I cannot stop thinking about our next embrace, longing for her soft kisses and her soft skin upon mine. I don't suppose there's really a word to describe what I feel. Overjoyed, excited yet somehow still despondent and completely dejected. One thing I can say for sure is how I feel when she asks me to kiss her or to make love to her. I love her bones and that will never change.

If she was here now, I would be consumed in kissing her for the duration of this very evening. I want her and she is all I ever think of. My letters are locked in her drawer and I'm sure she still reads them from time to time. Maybe, maybe not. Intense she says is what I am however, how could I ever be in any other way. To act passively would be lying, a massive lie to myself even. My whole being is absorbed by her, the sound of her voice, her behaviour, her principles.

I have been busy but I've missed you and I keep waiting, waiting for something. Day blends to night, days to weeks, mornings to frothy filled nights and even the calendar doesn't know what day it is. Before you know, you're dead inside and you have no faith in trust but just around the corner she waits for you, your love, the one you thought never existed. Well she does.

The Last Gig

Bruises, bright lights, stale cigarette smoke, welcome to the gig

I stand in the heat of the moment
running ice-cubes on my forehead
the heat gushing, waiting to perform.
I make my slow agitated way to the concrete platform,
a willing sacrifice in a black scarf.
Strings tighten and chords spur out in random signatures
I wrestle the heavy guitar over my pelvis
and feel the beat in my belly.
Heart pounding, black-out-time.

I glare into the faceless crowd
It appears like the cast of star trek,
Purple hair, red tights, toni and guy haircuts galore
Dead eye stares
Will they soak it up, do they ever?
Fear, heartless thank you, burning desire
And a stale smell of a small town
Would they want to change or continue being:
Analysts, PA’s, Bankers, Safe jobs in I.T.
blonde, breasts, a guitar
and no apologies.

I pause,
and give them my crooked rose;
‘If you wanna get ahead, put on your tight blouse’
and smear outside the lines of your lips with red paint.
Tasty.
I eat up their looks of confusion
as I sweat, judder and smash anything.
‘Why isn’t he pretty enough’?
Never.

Falling to my knees,
I bash out tuneless, noise
and become open mouth, bruises hidden among whining screams
smothering them with my beautiful instrument.

Rubble Of The Night

A day somewhere,
Spent amongst the rubble of the night
With someone delirious

My love lies,
My love lies adoringly,
As the birds sing from a far away
Enchanted place

I block out the sunlight with your bra
As you smoke a cigarette
Whilst reading Verlain or Rimbaud
Or somebody
Or other

Drinking warm lager from behind the crinkled sheets
Hoping that tomorrow will never come

Roll Over

Roll over and tell me you love me

Blowing me a kiss, means good luck

Despie the passers by

And the tears in the sky

Come back to me

I'm daisy plucking

She loves me, she loves me not

Sitting alone on the merry go round

Some Forgotten Day

That day now forgotten
Lost somewhere among the memory banks
We caught the 17.05 bus
Armed with love and lust

The lipstick made your lies worthwhile
and that dress! wow that dress!
You wore your hair different that one day
and I knew something had changed

Your timing was bang on
with no pause for breath
You cried
I cried
There I left you

Holding your umbrella with mascara on your cheek
Me tearing apart what I had off you
Your books, underwear, pick and mix
Your stale cheese sandwich at the bottom of your bag

My grief paraded through town
Faces, glances fixated on me
Only me
All the worlds eyes on me
I broke down amongst the poetry section in Waterstones
Tears all over Blake

I've Lost YOU

I've lost you
I admit that
and I do not blame you
or hate you
but I try not to still love you

Counselling cleareed my soul
showed me,
what I could be,
ought to be
your perfect boyfriend

Now the clock
marched on to today
evidently too late
and I could
never blame you

or chastise you
for being you
wonderful and beautiful
you always were
in my eyes

It's what I fell in love with

I just hope you can forgive me
now I've let go
just send me an email
and tell me you read this
and accept this
as my last final stance

Don't Rub Me In The Eye

Showed clearly,
you dearly hate me
and transparent is not the word
and loud symphonies play
everytime you're near
and my heart rattles in it's cage
tied up,
unable to find the words

Handshakes from your new love
just won't do
as if I'm meant to smile
and nod,
say it's ok

You know it should be me
I'm a different human being
Love you,
head to toe
to labour
to tory

My tears will never mean anything to you
just dismissed with a click of the mouse
and instead speak to your friends
my heart and soul to be laughed and frowned upon
I don't care,
You were for me

It's this longing you see
That I can't swallow

Your sweet gorgeous smile
and partially OCD
these words from my soul
ring true from my psyche

Not to hurt or upset you
but to make you realise
you were always my
darling,
sweet love

His Life Was His Gift

My friend would read Balzac and discuss philosophy in great detail. He would do odd things like take the last train to Birmingham New Street and then ring me and say 'we could spend our lives in love'. He was a fusion, it was amusing if only for a little while.

I hadn't known him very long, he was three years older than me and always quite cool at school.Hiding behind that floppy fringe of his. He had his first job before me digging graves in Finchley I think it was. He took his first sacking before I even had the chance to get in Francesca's knickers. He appears lost now, for a lifetime evaporated into some river of one of his minds that couldn't let go, he never could let go. You see that was his problem, 'where are you taking me'? I would politely ask, my lips pressed tight together. Oh, I forgot to mention, we spoke with our eyes.

He fell from the sky and has yet to land, yet to place his hat. He just utters very few words like 'Every 70's punk song has the answer', followed by 'I'll tell you in the morning'. The rags around his mind were torn forgotten guilts of youth cults, forgotten grooves, visions and unprintable politics with the odd comment on high art and Guardian film reviews. He had two main loves, Oscar Wilde and Aldershot Football Club. His life was his gift, his black leather bomber jacket was his anarchy. He was never a tearaway although I did witness him getting into a few scrapes on the terraces of his beloved.

He was as black as heaven and up until recently lived next to my Aunt Maggie in the White City Estate in a tenement presented so unlovingly like a knifegash in the sky headbutting the clouds. It reclaimed the colonies for the local benefits agency. From his window he could see Nottingham Forest's County Ground and as a child he would sit on the windowsill groaning with the roars from the crowds.

I recall once sitting in his flat drinking an arrangement of different tea's and he talked about Plato, the french revolution, the Notting Hill riots and Marks & Spencers. He knew a lot about nothing in particular. He took me to church then we went joyriding through Fulham in a dark coloured Peugeot. Speeding out of our ears he whispered 'It's quiet today on the roads' not audible above the Rolling Stones playing on the cassette player. I'll never forget the sweet sour smoke pumping out the perfume of Old Holborn clouding everything, re-arranging my brain.

Just Like Always

I lay on my pillow
Not talking to anyone
Watching you
Always unprepared

I made a mistake
Everything I love, I lose
I want to win
Start again

I want to come to you
Make you laugh
Wrap you up
Take you home

Looking for somewhere to stand and stay
Leaning on the wall
My head turned the wrong way
Unable to see you,
Just like always

I dreamed about you
I miss you
I better get my shit together
Start anew
Not to be nervous and hold you

I'm so sorry for everything

A Confession

Letters from far away places, memories filed under desks categorised by emotion

Going nowhere except to smiling faces

And to think, you made yourself out to be perfect, everyone said so

Needing attention wherever you turn, around every corner, it must get boring

I found out this hoax to my detriment, now you, never knew the meaning of boundary

You have no opinion, just like me

Broken flowers trampled to death by muddy footprints

But I will carry on,

Reading fiction that catapults me into another world

Heartfelt frames held together by days

Now let me go, I have my reasons

But you need to know

You broke my heart

You Never Did

You never did love me
I was always fed on this daily dose of compliance
Fattening me up with your jibes and insults

What memories have been invading you?
She would not tell me
Drowning her hearts complaints with noise instead

My love for you was deep and exclusive
And for me it was 8 months to cherish
To admire and never forget

I knew you,
I understood to the innermost fibres of my being
Those ringed deep brown eyes, that thinness
Your own peculiar way

I haven't been gone very long
But it feels like a lifetime
We both dismantled it
Left us nowhere to hide
But complete abstinence would have been less of a trial for my pride

England - Thank You

What does it mean to be English? To be alive in the 21st century? Hurtling along to the depths of hell where we all belong. To be English - queues, award shows, delayed trains, powdered fears, suppressed feeling to the point of some kind of syndrome. Everywhere grey, everyone with nothing to say and not caring quite knowingly.

Young and foreign in a new land, news feeds all dusty and broken . The leaflet reads 'come one, come all, stay forever' but when you arrive (fuck off you nigger, yid, paki, terrorist). Plucking your heartstrings with propaganda and crushing your dreams with all those bleeding symphonies.

So how does it feel? To be on your own, cold and scared, an outcast in a blistering back alley of the imaginations of millions of flag waving shaven headed cunts knifed up, four brain cells and tales of Wormwood Scrubs carrying on the family way - England for the English! The fucking retards with dirt swelling under their fingernails and loud unwelcoming earrings which bellow 'go back home'.

BAD THINGS HAPPEN TO THOSE WHO WAIT

So gather your children of the fabled dead, clutch your stomach and curl your bodies inwards for the kick in of your life. There are however, some back alleys and wastelands which offer gentle relief and promise. Shrouded hoodies which offer acceptance, a warm arm and soft flesh for the poor.

Cold England is not just for the chav pilled up masses, the demented or the doomed. It's for you, the happy go lucky who will try anything once. Chinese, Polish, Hungarian, Russian, Nigerian. You are welcome, you only live once. Beware the indie kids, the starved junkies, all the extras of life. The failed writer trying to ruin a major corporation with his facebook invitations.

Fuck the Helly Hansen and Rockport crew, become your own for one night. Just one night of burnt out cars and Skellington jackets. Or Ketamine squat parties and unlocked doors with unopened windows. It's not cold, not yet, not by a long shot. It's just the chill of the atmosphere, the cool air of a dying English night.

England,

Thank You.

A Full Stop On Her Life

You and I are not special in no sense of evil but a certain regret. Precious girl, don't stare for she used to be you with dreams and a handle on a starry life of opportunity and vanishing grey tenements. 'So what', they all insisted. Smash your television and rely on instinct, it's what seperates you from an animal. Are you an animal or an experience? Neither now!

Bloodied train tracks and stained thoughts re-living your youth each morning just before 'This Morning' comes on. Anything for you sweetheart, drink up ladies for the hour is upon us. Your Natwest credit card sliced and diced but the system breathes on. On, off, on, off, on, off, on, off. Millions of wasted customers empty apart from the shoddy creeking membrane inside the dark recesses of their heads. Fuck this, squeeze that. Oddly enough, nothing ever sticks.

And so, she died in the early years and I never saw it coming. Kind of sad but nothing precious all the same and me the drunken fool on the tube station crying. A push and a shove with a crazed lunatic called Alan. Piss off! Crunch! A thousand noises in four seconds for what seemed like four years. A passemger delay and a full stop on her life. A passenger delay. Shame to go that way, kinda makes you appreciate the sky.

Lonely Egocentric Me

Oh lonely me, it's such a shame
I never really knew my friends
With no hint of favouritism
I never had the experiences

It buries me, it towers over me
We never had the life
Gormless gits, with half-wit minds (discussing X Factor - you do have a choice)

I never fulfilled my dreams
Ridiculous thoughts from head to toe
They seemed so viable, so attainable, in my eye line
They go, never realised

Emotions flow to the fore, and I know for a fact
I'm happier alone
Really, I could care less
I do not need pity nor your trust

You'll say my heart has gone astray
and that I'm not 'normal' like it's a bad thing
But you see, even to the path not even I understand
My egocentric life is better than yours.

No Guarantees

Why won't you listen to what I have to say?
I won't ask tomorrow, just give me today
It's madness on this overcrowded train
I write your name all over again
I get to the 'J' and I might cry
I get to the 'H' and I just might die

There is no guarantees, is there a 'you and me'?
It's guaranteed - there is no you and me

You're mine, I love you
You're mine, I love you
You mime I love you, through the window pane
Of this slow paced, moving train
And it's so, so hard to bare
But it's too late I've already paid my fare
And I can't look back at you, your solitary figure on platform two

There is no guarantees, is there a 'you and me'?
I suppose it's guaranteed there is no you and me

I'm so sick of all these hotel rooms
Where everything reminds me of you
I feel so alone
I'm so tired, I want to go home
And I'm so scared of going on stage
I'm so scared of what they all might say
And I really don't know myself
I'm so scared of myself

There has never been a you and me
They never will be

When push comes to shove
I'm just this boy, you once loved
In your head, I have no name
In your bed, I have no place

Is it any wonder why I get fucked up?
Is it any wonder that I take these drugs?
Please don't say you're surprised to see me high for thw 15th night

Goodnight, Goodbye
Goodnight, Goodbye
Goodnight, Goodbye
Goodnight, Goodbye

Recent Films and Current Read

Books
Just finished a great book called The Wasp Factory, very interesting, very pro-feminism and totally enjoyable. I am now just starting 'Life Of A Good For Nothing' by Joseph Van Eichendorff.

Recent Films
2012, The Madness Of King George, The White Ribbon, Carla's Song, The Unborn, Paranormal Activity, PS I Love You, An Education, Shifty, Mum & Dad, Paaschendaele, Fargo, The First Day Of The Rest Of Your Life, An Haunting In Connecticut, Surveillance, Body Of Lies.

I would urge anyone to see The White Ribbon, Fargo, An Education. Brilliant Films! Stay away from 2012 and PS I Love You, two awful films.

Deal Your Hand

Your thin sickly disguise, turn red
Turn right back,
On your heels.
Marching with history books balancing on your head

It does not matter - it never will!
You turn your hand to this, to that
Turn the other cheek
Now deal your hand

Living on the breadline with £2.13 next to your name
But I still love you - I always did

Stay in your world with the things you know where it's true that:

A life without love is no life at all
A love without life is no love at all

With oceans in my eyes, I try to see,
but some woman with romantic notions written on her bedroom door
seems to be at 'one' with herself and I'm welcome no more.

Nagging In My Stomach

The Enigmatic fluid in the stomach - It is better to know yourself than to be unsure of yourself and yet it seem that you are known by all around you. The long road that leads from here to there can be reassuring in it’s hum of people, it’s familiar smells and motley crew of shops and stalls lining the road. Big men with bulky terrier dogs, and kids on bikes or in school uniform clutching McDonald’s cheese burgers in the cold, old ladies with floral trolleys buying vegetables and fish from indoor markets behind the pastry shop. I don’t know any of these people but they are faces I find comforting and familiar as I walk in the cold up to Heaven. I enjoy the buzz of cars and all the voices and words flying about. But I also like hearing them fade away as I follow the path in to the park up to the boating lake. Shouts replaced by kids playing on the swings and slides and climbing frames. The buzzing traffic melts in to the wind as it rustles through the leaves in the trees. I am alone now. I don’t understand how I can feel anymore alone here that I had done on the road. The road held no faces I knew, but in the park, seclusion set in and that’s when it arrived. The nagging in my stomach fizzed about urging me to do something. I ran, I ran and ran up past the boating lake and basket ball courts, I felt like I was going to cough up my lungs but I didn’t stop, I couldn’t, I had to run it was urgent, like a force pushing me further and faster away. I cut across the path and headed across the green I was picking up real speed now. STOP. PAUSE. I slipped PLAY. I was sat like a child grazed knees and muddy hands on the damp muddy grass, which had crashed me to a halt. I peer down at my hands all red and covered in dirt. My lungs still desperately trying to catch up, spluttering flem up in to my throat I held it there in my mouth for a moment and then spat it out on the ground beside me, it stringed off and I felt it spider web on to my lip and chin, I wiped it away with my sleeve. I felt little and young but strong and I recognized the hands I held in front of me. Still breathing heavily I stood and brushed myself down, I decided to walk home, slowly this time tracing the scenery, recording the bark on the sycamore tree I felt like a camera, I felt free but still a faint voice in my head balanced on the beat of my tread, following me, the famous question from Christmas dinner from school and pubs. What are you going to do? What are you going to do?

THE VERY LAST LIGHT

She cascades with perilious delight
Bring me to her tonight

I climb to the assault
With terrible force
Without discourse

I beg your pity
My only love
But there's no horror to surpass
The harshness of that cold glass

My spirit is cracked
And no bells chime
My cold room
Where we both belong tonight

And how bittersweet it is
On winter nights
To fritter away in my bed
Beyond the last wisp of light

Darksome December Day

You loved me
You left me
I knew I grew up too soon
I suppose change is as good as a rest
Oncemore talking to myself in an empty room

You take after me, but I'm like you
And those three words
Never seemed to ring true

With your fancy job in Manchester
You make me regret
All the promises I should never have kept

Unfortunately, decisions have been made
A fine pair you'll make
and on this sorry December day
I see you...

They lead the way
Those brilliant eyes in you
Your every way is scenic
Like fresh wind on a cloudless day

Everything resonates in the way you dress
and poets eat from your soft hands

Put your pen to bed

You sit in your room playing the dictionary game
Learning five new words a day
Didactic, inanimate, piffling, timorous
Differentiate

That frown you constantly carry around
cannot be explained in words
So don't try to give it a name

Your literature could not save you
Sentences fail you
Throw away those cut-outs
From your favourite poets
From whichever century

Keats, Byron, Chatterton etc etc
Gave you your name
But you have to see life
It's absurd complicated mess

So, put your pen to bed!