A Thousand Days of Sun - full novel

 If anyone's bothered, here's a link to my 80k word novel, which formed part of my PhD. The analysis is also included so fill yer boots. 

No refunds.

This is not a list

I don’t cook

like I used to

I have no urge

I just don’t want to

I had two books

to write

for myself, or maybe

one might

have gotten a deal

or both

or neither, but now

fuck knows

if I’ll ever go back

and carry on

I think perhaps

those days’ve gone.

I don’t smile

like I used to

I’m finding ways

to want to.

I can’t be arsed

setting up mics

I can’t be arsed

getting sound right

It does my head

right in

That the fucking songs

keep coming

one take is all

they’re gonna get

Instant upload

done. Dusted. Next.

I keep waking up,

no matter what.

Mornings are bright

tho I’m not.

I’m stuck here now

Until I’m not.

I’m stuck here now

no matter what.

I wasn’t gonna

make a list.

I tried not to.

I aimed.

I missed.

The Boy Who Got On The Bus

A while back, a kid got on a bus and didn’t sit next to a girl with a beautiful neck, deciding to sit next to me instead.

Yesterday, a different young woman got on the bus at a different stop, and sat on her own.

A few stops later, a young lad got on, and they knew each other a bit clearly cause he sort of did a little shy wave to her and she did the same back.

Now, there were plenty of free seats and he could have taken any single one, or a double to himself, or – and this would have broken me – sat next to me.

He could have left it at that. A wave, a little acknowledgement of each other, and then sit somewhere, headphones on, looking out the window and sometimes glancing at her reflection in the glass.

But he sat next to her, and it was lovely, because he was a sort of little hamster-faced bloke but he was smiling and not talking to her but listening and she was smiling and chatting with him. And, yes, she twirled her fingers in her hair sometimes, and, yes, he was on his best, nicest behaviour, but it was clearly honest.

I don’t know what happened when they left the bus to go to their college or whatever, or whether they would go out or get on with each other outside of the confines of Arriva’s grimy-windowed chuggers.

But for that ten minutes, they were both in the moment, and in the moment together.

It was lovely, and it was enough.

Untwinings

Quite some time ago

a lifetime or two past,

not decades but years,

the bustrip screenshot

the trees who reached

for each other,

intertwining,

catching each other’s leaves

dropped with care;

love-gifts

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.

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.

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

peace

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 

hungry.