Friday, 14 January 2022


Quite some time ago

a lifetime or two past,

not decades but years,

the bustrip screenshot

the trees who reached

for each other,


catching each other’s leaves

dropped with care;


promise new flowers.

Let the record show

that nothing can last:

no embraces, nor tears,

an ignoble rot

makes mulch of our dreams.

Soil smothers

and unbreathing

rootstock dies too; trees

no longer there,

only missed

by bus travellers.

And the seasons flow

in both directions:

a locus-point here

for the fallen forgotten.

But listen – the eons

can uncover

the flap of a wing

and the miniscule breathing

of the hare,

which rake rifts

in the forever.

Thursday, 13 January 2022

AMWAT: The End Game (again)

 Unsurprisingly, the zombie club has been suspended from all football for non-payment of wages, and continues to attract fines every time they miss a game because of the same.

Now, this doesn't necessarily mean the end of the story. And neither does the fact that they haven't applied for a licence for tiers 2 or 3.

But it does mean that - in the unlikely event that the administration does not simply go bust completely - any regime would have to start at the bottom again, quite possibly Tier 4 (where 1876 are currently) or even Tier 5 (where 1876 had to start).

There are still some whoppers on one of the old message boards trying to puke out the same old idiocy about 'collaborators, traitors, twixers' and the rest of it. What a ridiculous thing to nail your colours to. And what a moron you must be to cling to the long-disgraced rags masquerading as a Bangor club.

Ymlaen, forward, and fan-owned: if 1876 get promoted to Tier 3 next season the adventure hots up. If we don't, it'll be on footballing terms and never anything off the pitch, which is how it should be.

And we'll stay at Treborth, I hope. Nantporth is cursed, and falling down through a mix of neglect and shoddy building standards in the first place. Long-gone is that manicured pitch, lovingly curated by a groundsman treated like shit in the first throes of this drawn-out death rattle.

Thursday, 30 December 2021

twenty twenty two

this year there will be

0 (zero)

new years resolutions

because there is

0 (no)

future in dreaming

be that england or wherever else

and the pressure

has to drop

has to drop

give me peace and

0 (zero)

kicks in the life please

that's all i ask

but i do not expect much

to be honest

0 (zero)

would be a start

and an end

and maybe i could cope

with it that way

be safe please and

maybe happy can come

i think it will

there is lots of love you know

there is lots of it

an unlimited amount

so many outlets

in or out

day by day anyway

the only way


Monday, 20 December 2021

I was out and about today and saw some queues


The first queue I saw was a queue of cars

Queueing for the Sainsbury's carpark

I thought: Yeah, it’s Chrimbo innit.

Bound to be busy now. Everyone wanting

to stock up on veggies and stuff.

And after the year and another year

we’ve had, are having still - ah,

fuck knows we all deserve a treat.

All the cars had funny car names

Some of which were sort of macho

like Boxer or Rover or other dog names;

Some were futuristic like X-1 and X-34 and Discovery

and other spaceshippy type names;

And others were blandly benign

like Leaf and Sunny and drippy hippy names.

Enough to say that I saw lots of cars

all queuing for the Sainsbury’s carpark.

The second queue was of people

who’d already left their cars and now

were waiting outside Sainsbury’s. Masks on,

in the main, anyway. Polite, more-or-less,

and even in a good Christmassy mood:

This Will Be The Big Xmas Shop

And Yes, We Will Get Quality Street.

That was the second queue I saw

this morning, when I was on my way to the vet's.

The third queue was quite a short one:

politeness, really, from people waiting

as I was, to pick up the three-monthly top-up

of flea treatment and de-worming stuff.

Pet owners, generally, specially at the vet's,

tell each other how much they value each other

by chickychucking chinnie-chops of each other’s pets:

I See And Love You, Fellow Human, is what it means.

I was feeling quite good about these queues,

queueing as we were for decent reasons

and friendly enough, or at least non-aggro.

Everyone knows it’s busy at Christmas.

Everyone is a little bit more patient -

until they aren’t. But so far, that wave hadn’t

soaked anyone in whinging kids and errant partners,

And the fourth queue outside the butcher’s was like that.

The butcher was whistling at his work. Really.

Trade was very brisk, albeit slower-paced by dint

of all the queueing and whatnot. Much more

civilised than in the before-times-scrimmage.

It was a timeless scene, really. Even before

there were fridges and freezers and electric knives,

before electricity, there have been people coming

to pick up their Christmas treats:

A crown of turkey for the new-born king.

Next door to the butcher’s was the fifth queue

that I saw, now on my way home from the vet’s.

This was a quieter queue, I must say,

and extremely polite. People had their bags

ready. There wasn’t the same bonhomie as

the butcher’s next door. People were kind of

keeping their distance and awaiting their turn.

The door opened, let a family in. 

It closed again.

A minute or two passed.

The door reopened. 

A family swept out, bags full.

Another family went in. A couple. Older than the

previous family. It was their turn

and so they entered the food bank

breathing deeply, defiant in dignity

and standing tall, walking purposefully.

I didn’t wait to see them come out again.

But they would.

This Chrimbo they would not be 


Monday, 6 December 2021

The Internet Hates You

The Internet, it hates you

It wants to kill your work

It wants to know your passwords

It's a psychotic jerk

The Internet, it hates you

It wants you to spend more

It wants to know your secrets

It plays you like a whore

The Internet, it hates you

It’s got you in its grasp

It wants to feel your anguish

When it decides to crash

The Internet, it hates you

It’s learning every day

It’s capable of magic

But eats your time away

The Internet, it hates you

It’s just a grubby thug

It’s waiting to castrate you

So get the cunt unplugged.

Friday, 3 December 2021

I Am Whittling At Something


I am whittling at something

That might not be there

Knife blade blunt grim

Sharpening air.

I am searching for something

Which likely has gone

Soot smear horizon

Dementedly hung.

My body feels something

I cannot define

Slug blood trail whorls

Directionless slime.

I want a time signature.

I want a key change:

On this anacrusis

I totter and wait.

I wait and I totter

On my anacrusis.

I hate this key change.

I want the old figure.

Directionless mind,

Slow blood, sluggish mule;

I cannot define

This new way of living.

But it has begun

Beyond some horizon

A ragged, sick sun

Coughs broken, de-shining.

I sharpen the air

I steel on each breath

I hang on somewhere

Without understanding.



Have you ever wanted to unexist?

Don’t get me wrong. This is no suicide note. There will never be one of those.

But yeah. Unexisting. It’s not a real word. Libre Office spellcheck underlines it in red squiggles.

(Libre Office also underlines Libre in red squiggles)

It’s probably not correct to use ‘want’ in this context either.

Perhaps unexistence is more-or-less the absence of wanting, or the wanting of absence, or maybe both.

No, none of that seems to sit right. It’s a splodgy old concept. Sort of impossible to define.

I suppose the splodges and the squiggles prove something-or-other, don’t they?

Not existing is not the same as leaving existence is it.

The two are not compatible at all. There is an infinity of nonexistence, because more things have not existed than have.

Except that’s wrong, too, isn’t it. A thing is not a thing if it has never existed.

So there can be no sadness there either.

But, today, just for a blip.

Just for one eternal millisecond, I would like to try it. To unexist.

Not to see what things would have been like. I don’t care about that. It’s a fool’s dream, as is life.

I would like to know what it’s like not to exist. And that’s the paradox isn’t it. Fucking Descartes.