Sunday, 24 December 2017

The Magic of Christmas

The spirit of Xmas, the magic of the season, and all that shit. Magic not guaranteed.

PiePie The Magpie Came To Visit

I met a magpie yesterday. He didn’t tell his name.
He came to visit out the blue. He liked it, so he stayed
About an hour. He perched and preened his plumage clean and bright;
He did a mean impression of a camera to our delight;

He perched on Suzy’s shoulder. Oh, she laughed in sheer joy
And the magpie laughed along. He was a funny boy.
(Or maybe girl, I couldn’t tell. It’s not my expertise.)
He even cleaned his beak upon her hoodie’s soft-washed sleeves.

We phoned up all the folks we thought could help us with advice.
Was he someone’s missing pet? Hmm. Well, nobody recognised
The magpie up and down our street. He wasn’t someone’s bird
But maybe as a little chick he’d been hand-reared, we heard.

Regardless, Mr. Magpie came and brightened everything.
We gave him water and some corn, he gave us smiles and grins.
The cats were jealous: Rusty came and tried to chase him off
But magpie just flew up and up and cat-food he was not.

My friend said maybe Magpie had been sent to us to say,
All will be well, life’s not all bad, that gloom is not the way
To be. And that to be is really all that ever matters;
The rest’s just details, fripperies, a mess of background chatter;

Time is short, black nights are long, depending how you feel;
But living in the moment is the way to make things real
And solid. Like a conversation with a magpie does.”
He didn’t say his name. True. But I sure knew who he was.

Thursday, 21 December 2017

6225 622: words

Father he (Jo) ousts
Undead (we, ya

Extras): “Go in nitro
Trails!” (VO; xi);

"Danger! Inner

Unread, zappy,

Leaved quiet


Wednesday, 20 December 2017

A sonnet for 2017

On the first day of Jan. First of twoohoneseven
The year stretches out, yawns, and shivers
Hung over. We all are. Fat on bread of heaven
And all of our comrades are with us,
Some are on tour; some in the studio;
Some scribbling frantically.
Strings stretch between us, wherever we go:
There’s only so much land and sea.
But then, something ruptures. A crack in the sky.
Foul lightning that burns at our souls.
A cackling, harridan hater of life
Cutting at that rare rope – and one falls.
On the first day of Jan. First of twooohoneeight
The comrades still here hope that love tramples hate.

Tuesday, 12 December 2017

Tales from the bedside pad: 6225 622

I don't understand it but I did it.
6225 622. 
It was in my head.
Then I woke up and it was in my bedside pad.
6225 622.
So I did this and didn't edit.
I don't understand it. But it's done.
6225 622.
Here is what it sounds like:

Friday, 8 December 2017


lots and lots of snow
like old time snow
growing up as a kid snow
drifty snow
maybe school's off today snow
and in a year of loss and weirdness
I look and see
well, it's beautiful
and I am here to see it
that's sort of beautiful too
in a life of confusion and outworth and weirdness
I think.

Thursday, 7 December 2017

But. Even then?

Yes. Well. What happened to Greece
Was a violent fuck by the banking elite
Until it bled. There was no money,
Just debt. But even then
I think I believed still in peace.

And. So. There isn’t a plan
And admitting this, a man
In a suit shrugged it off, which was
‘nt cute. Remember when
They wrote lies on a van?

Aye. Aye. The good ship shits sails,
The crops and the economy fail,
And for what? A power struggle,
Power that should never be
In the hands of those who seek hail.

Yes. Well. I wonder if this all
Will blow over, or whether we will fall
And crack heads. In schools will they teach
How we fled? How we all got
Irish passports? When we Took Back Control?

Wednesday, 4 October 2017

Where Is The Cat?

Where is the Rusty Cat?

I don't know, I don't know.

Where is the Rusty Cat?

Is he over there?

Is he there on the stairs?

Is he there on my chair?

Where is the Rusty Cat?

Is he over there?

Where is the Rikey Cat?

I don't know, I don't know.

Where is the Rikey Cat?

Has he gone outside?

Has he gone to explore?

Has he jumped to next door?

Where is the Rikey Cat?

Has he gone outside?

Here is the Rusty Cat!

He is here, he is here!

Here is the Rikey Cat!

He has come inside!

There is food, there is food!

Strokes and fuss - humans too!

Rusty and Rikey Cat!

Happy little boys.

Sunday, 27 August 2017

Rejoice! Your Voice is Beautiful!

Rejoice! Your voice is beautiful!
Your voice is beautiful! Rejoice!

Let nobody take it away
Don’t let them do that shit to you!

Liars, bastards
Charlatans and fools
Don’t care what is true
Starve them of their fuel

Rejoice! Your voice is beautiful!
Your voice is beautiful! Rejoice!
Oh rejoice!
Oh rejoice!

Rejoice! Your voice is beautiful!
Your voice is beautiful! Rejoice!

Profit not people’s their aim
Don’t let them play their sick game

Selfish fuckpigs
Selling what is free
Me me me me me
It’s insanity

Rejoice! Your voice is beautiful!
Your voice is beautiful! Rejoice!
Oh rejoice!
Oh rejoice!

Rejoice! Your voice is beautiful!
Your voice is beautiful! Rejoice!

Poverty, violence and grime
Follow them wherever they’ve been

Blinkered, careless
Feathering their nests
Beating at their chests
But they’ve not long left

Rejoice! Your voice is beautiful!
Your voice is beautiful! Rejoice!
Oh rejoice!
Oh rejoice!

Rejoice! Your voice is beautiful!
Your voice is beautiful! Rejoice!

As long as there’s hope in the world
There’s brothers and sisters with words

Steadfast friendship
For the good of all
Equal rights for all
Shout it and stand tall

Rejoice! Your voice is beautiful!
Your voice is beautiful! Rejoice!
Oh rejoice!
Oh rejoice!

Rejoice! Your voice is beautiful!
Your voice is beautiful! Rejoice!
Oh rejoice!
Oh rejoice!

Monday, 7 August 2017

The ballad of Glum King Leopold

Here’s a story I’ve been told
About a king called Leopold:

“King Leopold of Far Away
Woke up and felt quite glum one day
Why it was so, he could not say.

He called down for his Jester
Who danced a jig from Leicester
But King was not impressed-er.

‘Begone,’ the glum king said.
‘I’d rather stay in bed.’
And thus the jester fled.”

The tale’s begun, I’ll carry on
Reciting this familiar song.

“The king got up at half past ten
And yawned and yawned and yawned again
He was quite bored, he told his men.

He sat with head in hands
Bored of his steel bands
Bored of the drummers’ clangs.

‘I’m bored,’ said the glum King.
‘I’m bored of everything.’
And thus it went for him.”

I know this tale is real because
I heard it from a man called Oz.

“It wasn’t right; it wasn’t funny
Even counting all his money
Couldn’t make his day more sunny.

The rubies and the gold
Ten generations old
Left the king quite cold.

‘Oh fie,’ the dull man sighed,
No matter what he’d tried
He felt so dull inside.”

Can you guess what’s happening?
In the song about this king?

“He summoned his physician
And laid out his position:
The doctor frowned, and listened.

‘You’re suffering,’ Doc said,
‘From hurting of the head,
‘I prescribe golden bread.’

And so the king ate some
But he still felt so glum
He cursed his own kingdom.”

It’s taking quite a turn, for sure:
Will the king ever find a cure?

“He had a thousand thousand horses
He’d ride them often, at his courses
And gather up his wartime forces.

But this time they just snorted
The king’s new plan was thwarted
No matter what he bought-ed.

‘This sucks,’ said Leopold.
‘I’m not even that old.
But life seems very cold.’”

What do you think the king will do?
Or what if it happened to you?

“His tapestries and art and trinkets
Adorned the walls; oh, you would think it
A palace plush and rich and link it

To the king’s broad happiness.
After all, to be a guest
There meant there was a manifest

Glory to the whole huge place
With lands and land that fair embraced
A hundred thousand miles of space.”

I can reveal the song’s quite right:
It was an awesome size and sight.

“King Leopold was truly down.
He took off his enormous crown.
He wore a quite enormous frown.

He looked out of his window
And saw big crowds there, down below
Happy, lively. No-one low.

‘What’s this?’ he asked himself.
‘They’re in such happy health
Whilst I am not myself.'”

The king it seems was hankering
For something else to succour him.

“The king pondered. What could he do
To rouse himself from doldrums? Who
Could bring him back? Oh, who? Oh who?

And then he had a thought:
If he could leave his court
Unnoticed, then he ought

To join the happy throng.
To sing the happy song.
To be – and to belong.”

The story’s rocking on, so, hey -
Let’s move ahead with no delay!

“The king went down alone to see
The laundry: it was there that he
Got dressed out of his finery,

Took off his crown and jewels,
His silk, his gloves, his mules,
(Those are a kind of shoe-ls).

He put on a rough robe -
The commonest of clothes –
It itched and had big holes.”

Do you know the king’s new plan?
Do you think it’s all in hand?

“Stealthily, King Leopold left
His palace by the back door, crept
Outside to mingle with the rest.

The crowd was laughing, cheering too.
And best of all, they knew not who
The king was as he struggled through

The rowdy-bawdy crowd
With all their noise and loud
Carousing, happy, proud.”

Oz told me stories often, but
This one of his has always stuck.

“The king observed the games around him;
The many stalls and crafts astound him
The traders, jokers, music found him.

And one man caught his eye awhile
And Leopold was quite beguiled
‘Ahoy there, friend,’ he said, and smiled.

The man smiled too. Amazing!
The king felt his luck changing:
He felt the glumness fading.”

Do you want to hear some more?
The next bit’s good – I can assure!

“His new friend had three playing cards
And set them down, and said, ‘On guard:
Just find the lady – it’s not hard.’

So Leopold watched as the man
Shuffled the cards round, and then
Selected the right card! What fun!

The man gave a little bow:
‘You’re so good,’ he said. Now
Let’s play again, you show me how.”

The king had never had such fun!
He’d never seen this card trick done!

“’Let us make it interesting,’
Said the man, to the credulous king,
‘Let us wager,’ and he grinned.

The king felt confident at this.
He’d found the lady, she was his.
He thought it was an easy quiz.

‘OK,’ the king assented.
‘Here is some gold, intended
To be saved or lend-ed.’”

It was from his vast store of course.
He had a million more, of course.

“’Let’s go!” the trickster said at last –
(the gold the king produced was vast)
A crowd had gathered, watching, rapt.

‘I’ll turn the cards again for you,
And if you win, you’ll earn what’s due!
I promise I’ll be slave to you!’

Leopold nodded, eagerly.
He’d win this game quite easily.
He’d find the lady, quite simple-ly."

I like this bit; it makes me smile.
Oz told it with such splendid style.

"So the card sharp shuffled once again
And mixed them up in front of him
‘Now find the lady; then you’ll win.’

Leopold pointed confidently
At the card he knew was she.
He was the king! Of course he’d be

The best at all games.
But this time, he failed:
The lady had sailed."

Can you imagine how he felt?
The disappointment in himself?

“He was aghast: how could this be?
He was quite sure of what he’d seen.
And that he’d found the carded queen.

‘Unlucky,’ said the tricky crook
‘She’s on the left, you see, just look.’
And so she was. And the man took

The gold into his pocket.
Leo frowned; what was this?
He couldn’t quite believe it."

The tale approaches its end, for
There’s not all that much more.

“’Hang on a moment,’ Leo said.
‘I’d like another game instead,
To win back what I’ve lost.’ Which led

To another shuffle, another draw,
More gold produced, a challenge for
Leo to find the fucking whore.

He lost again, and furious
Began to shout and scream and cuss:
‘I’ll have your head for this, you cunt.’"

Oh dear, the king has gotten riled.
Do you think his blood has boiled?

"The man smiled sweetly, took his leave
Though Leopold pulled on his sleeve.
‘Get fucked,’ the man said, ‘I believe

The game was fair and fucking square.
Your words are neither here nor there.
Do I look like I fucking care?

The king could not believe it.
He could not quite conceive it.
Who was this fucking eedjit?"

My word, what a palaver!
He’s getting in a lather!

“’Look, you maggot, scum-cunt fungus,
You dare to trick me? While among us
The king walks – yes, it’s me, you cum-suck,

I’ll cut your hands off, boil your eyes
Decapitate your pets and wife,
Sweet music to me all your cries,

Cause I’m the fucking king.
I can do anything.
You cunt, you’ll never win.’”

Good grief, the anger of the king!
He really is a silly thing!

"The man looked at Leopold’s clothes.
Looked down at the rough, holey robe.
‘You’re the king, you say? I hold

That you’re a lowly kitchen hand
Who stole this gold. I understand
The police are quite near at hand.

So get to fuck before I shop you.
You mad fuck, nobody can stop you
Saying you’re the king, you cock, you.’”

What fun! The trickster’s hitting back!
Oh Leopold – you’ve gone off track.

“And so the card-sharp left, with haste
And soon was in another place,
The crowd dispersed. The king was faced

With penury, at least until
He could return inside, and fill
His pockets from his endless till.

‘Fuck these fucking scum,’ he said.
‘I’ll chop off all their bastard heads.
I’ll kill their children in their beds.’”

Oh what a naughty little king!
He’s such a silly little thing!

“King Leopold of Far Away
Returned home, slipped in, and stayed.
He drank some mead, and fucked his maid,

Decreed his soldiers, fully armed
Be sent down to inflict true harm
To anyone they caught in town.

‘That’ll learn them not to mess
With me, the twats,’ Leopold said.
‘Those stinky little ants are dead.’”

The king’s in quite the mood!
Oh he is very, very rude!

“And so the rampage in the town
Lasted til it was all burnt down,
Corpses littered all around,

Pets dismembered, babies skewered,
Torture foul and rank endured
The fury of the tricked king poured

Through his fascist army.
Through their sense of duty.
Their bloodthirst for the booty.”

Oh me, oh my! What can you say?
What a king! Oh, what a day!

“The army was unstoppable.
Each man on speed, doped up, and full
Of booze, bravado, bile and bull,

They razed the whole place to the ground.
It was filled with the crackling sound
Of burning flesh; and pound by pound

The soldiers ate the people.
They raped and sliced the feeble.
The death-pits swarmed with evil.”

Oh those silly sausages!
They’re very naughty soldiers, yes?

“And when the population was annulled
The soldiers turned on each other, bored,
And fought and fucked in pools of gore.

When they looked up to the castle, then
They saw the king’s face watching them.
The army, drunk on death, again

Turned to the palace. The hoardes
Set their fires and drew their swords,
And scampered up the palace walls.”

Oh what is our poor king to do?
Do you think he will make it through?

“’Oh lads, oh lads, you’ve done me proud,’
King Leopold said, ‘So you’re allowed
To have time off to chill back out.’

The army didn’t listen:
They’d had enough of him.
They grabbed the king.

They chopped him up.
They ate his guts.
The king was dust.”

Oh no! To think the king is dead!
(I tell the tale as Oz once said.)

“The army took over the country.
Now with a population of nobody.
They’d killed them all, and ate them, see.

They saved the king’s cock and balls,
They were pretty fucking small-s.
Displayed them on the palace walls.

But cause they’d killed the women
There were no babies from the men.
They all died. No-one would miss them."

The moral of this story? Well,
There’s not that much that I can tell.

I spose you could say kings are twats
And so are armies, hmm, but that’s

Too simple a label to bestow.
Suffice to say that when you go

To bed one night and wake up bored
Try not to be like Leopold:

And if you want to go outside
Please steer quite clear of genocide.

Wednesday, 21 June 2017

The Sniper (snippet)

Red spot laser sight
The last thing you’ll see
And hiding behind it
The sniper

One shot phaser light
Seeks sins, shoots free
But nobody’s ever met
The sniper

Don’t fear what you won’t feel
For most mistakes are free
The sniper, eyes of steel,
Waits long and patiently.

Down In The Catacombs

An ancient city atop an ancient hill
Strives to breathe above the dust
Strives to soar above base desire
A thousand generations fortified Mdina

In pre-history I stood here, watching
As they came from the South
As they came at us from the East
Whilst the earthquakes shivered the ground

Phonecians, Byzantines, Arabs attacked
But none could make their works stick
But none could keep the fortunes alive
As broken bodies piled up in the streets

The Silent City’s palaces still stand
We watch together as the sun rises
We watch together as the empires fall
From this ancient city atop this ancient hill

The groaning souls of the exhausted dead
Are banished to the Catacombs
Outside these city walls and never to enter Mdina
Miles of ancient tunnels underneath parched Rabat

Where something more primeval rules

Here, it is said, if you stand and listen
You can hear the whispers
Doomed generation after deranged generation
Banished to these subterranean sandstone cathedrals

In the galleries and recesses of rest

These crypts to cry out

We cry out

And we call

Join us
Join us
Join us

Monday, 22 May 2017

There is a house

There is a house. It’s a terraced house. In a Victorian Street.

You can walk from it to a medium-to-small city. It takes about twelve minutes, depending whereabouts you want to go.

There are loads of venues in the city. You can walk around and hear music pretty much everywhere.

And we did. Sometimes we made the music happen.

Sometimes we made the booze happen.

Sometimes we even provided strawberry and champagne pie.

That was fun, and funny.

Our friends often played, or arranged, or promoted, or did sound, or lights, or radio.

Wherever we went, there would be someone we knew. I moved away, but I know this is still the case for my friends who stayed. They’re embedded there. It’s beautiful, really.

And lots, and lots, and lots, of fun.


Hundreds of nights. Too many to count. Round the house.

You could always go around there if you were bored. I’d spend more time there than at my own gaff, usually.

There’s an offy about four minutes’ walk. They sell eight cans for a fiver, which isn’t even that good of a deal really is it.

Still, we drank it. Sometimes we’d even afford whisky.

Sometimes we – that is to say, the gang, or crew, or melee of moiderers - ran out of booze entirely.

Sometimes we’d ring up the 24-hour booze delivery number.

It was written on a cricket bat.

By the time the booze arrived, of course, we’d all be asleep. It took fucking ages for those fuckers to get the van full enough to justify their antics. After you’ve been asleep for two hours and it’s 3am and a man comes knocking at the door with a crate of warm Heineken that cost you 30 quid it doesn’t seem like that great an idea. But you needed to pay them.

They weren’t quite the kind of people you’d not want to pay.

Other times we’d manage to stay awake. Then we’d wander around Toxteth at 6am fairly aimlessly, which is good for stories but not too wise really.

But we were brothers, of course, so we were invincible.

Blood brothers.

Some of the gang heated up forks on the stove and branded each other. Some of the brands were less corporeal entirely. I swerved the fork incident somehow. I kinda wish I hadn’t sometimes.

But who the fuck wants a fork brand on their arm at age 80?

By then I spose it doesn’t matter either though does it.


There were lots, and lots, and lots of silly things we did.

Then and now.

And maybe tomorrow too.

I’m going to the house. Maybe this week. I’m not sure when.

I’ll walk up there from the trains, more than likely. As I remember it’s about a 28-minute walk, depending which station I get off from.

I’ll walk down the path and go into the house, passing what used to be our office.

I’ll sit on the sofa, drink a cup of tea, water boiled in the same kettle as always.

I’ll look at the music books.

I’ll look at all the albums and hard drives full of music.

Maybe I’ll see that the washing-up needs doing, or that there’s a dirty pair of trousers on the floor.

Or that there’s half a loaf of bread.

Or a posh bottle of hot sauce in the cupboard, unopened yet.

I don't know for certain.

What I do know is this:

I’ll sit in the house, the Victorian terraced house, in the not-so-big city where I used to live and play and love and mess and work.

I will be surrounded by all the trinkets and possessions and magazines and books and music and cooking implements and clothes and shoes and tables and chairs and the big casserole pan used so many times for so many happy people.

It will all be the same; all his stuff.

You accumulate this shit over the years don’t you. It kind of comes to define your space. Maybe define you, too.

I dunno.

Maybe I’ll sit by the table where we all played poker, and drank until we didn't really care that Rob always won.

Maybe in the chair next to where me and my friend hammered everyone at Pictionary.

Or on the sofa where I’ve slept countless times.

(Sometimes on purpose.)

Everything will be the same; the house holds memories in its bricks.

But it will not be the same,
because my friend will not be there.

Of course, there are no answers to be had.

Many questions, of course. Too many, and too painful too.

But answers are a trickier proposition.

The Victorian street will not say anything, because it has seen everything there is to see a thousand thousand times before, and it knows not to pry.

It knows there’s nothing that can be done.

Nothing that can be really, truly said.

And that both of those things are OK.

It knows that time won’t heal, but that time will soften and fade the sharper barbs, that scar tissue may turn into a personal reminder of better times past.

That smiles will return.

They might be wonky; there might be extra lines on the faces.

But the smiles will return.

And the sun will still come up the next day.

And the local urchins will still hurl bottles at students’ heads before running away.

And the offy will still sell shitty lager to skint idiots.

And the world will turn again.

And again.

And again.

Sometimes all you can hope for is not to fall off isn’t it.

Thursday, 18 May 2017

CC Rider

So another one’s gone.
52 is pretty young, for a man, these days.
For a rock star? That’s also kinda old.
But 52 is too young to be gone.

And it’s not cool to go young.
52 is pretty young, for any man, any day.
To leave without planning to get cold
Or wanting to, mid-song, is wrong.

Sunday, 16 April 2017

The Saddest Window In The World

Maybe you’ve seen it
Perhaps you only dreamed it
Walked past and given a shiver
An unintended quiver
For the saddest window in the world.

It’s really just four panes
In a boring, rough wood frame
It has little view; it faces a wall
In the thinnest alley of them all
It’s the saddest window in the world.

The sun has never ventured
Into the dark, dank centre
Of an alley full of muck
And garbage-stinking stuff
Below the saddest window in the world.

The glass is filthy too
Nobody ever looks through
The portal’s never opened
It’s crumbling, tired and broken
The saddest window in the whole world.

The room is now bricked up
There’s no-one to unblock
The concrete that surrounds it
The walls that grow around it
The forgotten window of the world.

Deep in the alley
Stirs a creature sadly.
The garbage starts to move and curl
But it’s not garbage. It’s a girl
Dressed in rags and shivering
Dreaming she’s not quivering
From cold and hunger night on night
From running, hiding, thieving, stealing
To try and grab another bite
A one whose life is riven
With harsh truths, unforgiven
Forgotten by the filthy world
No family that she knows of, or
A school, a home, a daddy
To hold her, or a mummy.

She is the saddest girl in the world.
She eats food that’s discarded
In bins. She is abandoned.
Her clothes are rags, held fast with grot.
She has no name aside ‘get out’

She is the saddest girl in the world.
There are no birthdays for her.
She hasn’t had cake, ever.
No blowing out of candlesticks:
She has never made a wish.

The saddest girl in the world
Doesn’t wonder anymore
Who lives and dies behind closed doors
Because she’s always hungry
And cold, and scared. She must be

The very saddest girl in the whole world.
She sits up in her garbage bed.
She puts her hands around her head.
Another day, another struggle
A thousand ways to get in trouble

For the saddest girl in the world.
But today she looks up; sees a window
To a room she could call her own.
It’s ten feet up. It looks so lovely
One day she’ll climb the walls and see

A way to open up a room
That maybe she could call her own.
And she would look out of the window,
See the garbage down below.
She says to herself: "Maybe today

I’ll find a ladder, find a way
And tonight – maybe tonight I can sleep
Without rats chewing at my feet
Without dark shadows looming large
Without the grimy seeping sludge

Maybe I’ll be safe, even warm.

I will be the happiest girl in the world.

It is the most beautiful window in the world."

Friday, 7 April 2017

The Great Five Pound Note Furore, And What Happened Next

Tallow in the fivers didn’t last so palm oil came in instead. That wasn’t as stable, so the Royal Mint did a deal with Vietnam, hybridising the paper with bahn da nem. That had a bit of a crackly feel in the pocket, according to market research. Ascorbic acid, phenols and tocopherols helped with the longevity of the new notes as did a gentle smoking process. 

It was found that rosemary was the most effective at this, which also gave the fivers a lovely woodland aroma.

People started to collect them; the money made wallets and houses smell more friendly. Banks were suddenly beset with tourists just wanting to sit there and inhale the pleasing memory of late summer in the forest. Pop-up fiver cafes started to appear in disused shops, where people paid in coinage to drink awful coffee and factory floor-scraped tea and just let their noses get away from the stress of the grimy streets, whilst projections of childhood-memory playing in copses flittered and fluttered across hastily-whitewashed walls.

The median cost for a 15 minute seat was £6, and waiting times were measured in hours.

Greengrocers, in a kind of Ui-esque dip, could sell their cauliflowers for a quid each, or four for one of the new fivers. There were fewer and fewer in circulation, so in demand were the notes. People weren’t getting rid of them; they were beautifully-scented and brought a sense of permanence to any home. The power of the suggestion of the aroma of nature seemed to wrest meaning away from the financial value of the notes, and put it back into altogether more nebulous, but somehow more real, terrain. The cities, in particular, could not get enough: people began to use them as modern nosegays as they wandered the filthy, three-weekly-collection streets, stepping over increasingly desperate nonfives without a second look.

By now, the upgraded five pound notes were changing hands for ten pound coins or more.

When the plague hit, and the food went bad, and the imports’ costs soared, and the caulis cost a tenner a pop, the Mint added monosodium glutamate to the notes. Aroma cafes added edible notes to their menus; the taste was irresistible. For those who could afford it, breakfast would be five pounds, lightly toasted, with irredescent GM-butter; lunch a five pounds soup with irradiated Nu-water. The evening meal was usually cat. There were always plenty of those; so quickly do pets become pests.

Most people didn’t have time or the inclination to wonder what the moral of all this was, so it was just left on the side, a dollop of indigestible fat amidst the fibre.

Thursday, 23 March 2017

Freak power motherfuckers

Imagine if Hunter or Jello had won:
What could they have really done?
Freak power, motherfuckers! Don't bogart the Jimson weed:
The world's turned out more fucked up than either did forsee.

Monday, 6 March 2017

The several disrespects of Carlton Wuck / Luckton Carr effects residual saviour: Part One

Carlton Wuck
Took for his sustenance bat faeces and the residue of wet dreams
Neither hermit nor hobbit
He existed in tarclammed paper strewn and stewing behind a disused garage
And that is the first disrespect of Carlton Wuck.

Carlton Wuck
Hid himself and his frame behind a chimney stack fallen from a disused scout hut
Randy, ratty and ragged
He masturbated as he watched the stompy joy and angry happiness of a protest march pass him by
And that is the second disrespect of Carlton Wuck.

Luckton Carr effects despond; says that this fast and
Flying gas-mark, grotesque roach of angriness happily stands: Boy, grumbly; her wrathfully. That they, fatedly
Buggered and grotty, shady
Twot-fought; abused aplomb more than Brahimly. A reminder came: this, in itself, fed
Luckton Carr.

Luckton Carr effects this worst: the instant and
Ravaged, misused and maligned, accruing later bardamned in twistedly-
Shod, bitter, permittedly-
seamless lassisitude. Our man’s reasons can’t countenance this formbook:
Luckton Carr.


1. We have nothing. We are frustrated. Nobody listens to us.

2. It is not your fault.

1. Ah. That's good to know. So whose fault is it?

2. Theirs.

1. Theirs? Not yours?

2. No, don't be silly. How could you even think of asking that? It's Theirs. Look at them. They look different. They speak differently. Look at them. They are the ones. They did it all.

1. Did what, exactly?

2. It. It was them, it will be them and it always has been them. The future is at risk.

1. Yes. I see it. They must not come in.

2. Yes because They want/want to destroy what is Ours.

1. Yes. Yes! Stop them! How can we stop them?

2. You need to vote out. Then They can't tell you what to do any more.

1. Yes! Yes! Out! Out! Democracy!

2. Yes.

1. Are you absolutely sure it's not just, you know, a little bit, sort of, your fault?

2. No, don't be silly. How could you even think of asking that? It's Theirs. Look at them. They look different. They speak differently. Look at them. They are the ones. They did it all. You voted out. Democracy! They want/want to destroy what is Ours.

1. Yes! Out means out! Ours is ours! They want/want to destroy what is Ours! They want to take our jobs/cheat our benefits system! Out! Out! Out!

2. That's it. Democracy! The people have spoken.

Thursday, 9 February 2017

righter wrests

An arsonist. A narcissist. A fantasist. Infanticist.
Words in waves, worlds wave past.
A wrestler. A Westerner. An imager. Imaginer.
Whiles and wiles. Wails and Wales.

A spectacler. Spectacular. Bipolar and binocular.
Phrases pave. Praises pave least.
A spender. A suspender. A renderer. Incenderer.
Trials and tiles. Tails and tales.

A fighter. A frightener. A straightener. A shaper.
Living lies. Lying grave at last.
A converter. A comforter. A listener. A lessoner.
The righter writes. Rails and regales.