Sunday, 24 January 2010


We hail to the divinity of the suits,
when they sit there in their fine silks and crown themselves king on our behalf..
Where does it end?
When did it start?
You have to audition to get the part,
hand on heart,
reciting the tart words of a fabricated lament.
You have to process yourself through a culture conveyor belt,
ploughing through the textbook definition of life itself.
Demanding nothing, owning nothing, yet owing everything.


My bones are weak
My body is meek

My skin is tired
My mind is wired

My eyes are blind
My thoughts are kind

My heart is cold
My records are old

My wounds have healed
My lips are sealed

My clothes are torn
My shoes are worn

My smile is real
My hands can feel

Bad Apple

Come and meet me its nice and clean,
I’m sat amongst the mould and gangrene.
Where your heart has rotted down to its core,
Like a bad apple from a good tree, I want more.

I give you cold shoulder, you look away,
Then we cross paths on the moors where we played
Stagnant music from a rusted Dansette,
And we dance in the storm ‘till our clothes get wet.

Beer Tongue

I sit with two thorns in my mouth,
One for you and one for them.
Wallowing in the cesspit of my mind,
One punctures my lip with words I don’t mean,
One slashes my tongue and I seem to keen,
If you heard me tomorrow morning,
My words would be composed like cherry blossoms, yearning
For your contentment and composure;
Hardly any exposure,
To harsh situations when my drunken words bloom,
I would sit there in silence as you enter the room,
And cultivate irrational dreams in my head,
Then think of the logic instead.
Apologizing for drunken parables ,
And spilling beer on your lapels,
Is not how I usually spend my time.

Tuesday, 19 January 2010

Girl in the Corner

I like to watch you eating chips
And smiling as they pass your lips
Forgetting all that’s come and gone
No up or down no right or wrong

I like to see you singing your song
No fancy dress or make up on
With your hormonal spots and pretty eyes
Long dark hair and no dark guise

Sunday, 17 January 2010


Sitting bambi-eyed on a beer sodden floor,
No sleep, no food, wasted and wounded
This lifestyle you got into soon, did
it change you? Did it rape you of your purity?
Alas, the ecstatic excess has faded,
Like harrowing mist rising from a purple moor

You saw me decay piece by piece
As each line shot up my nose
You saw my birth, death, and false mirth
That I escaped into to hide from myself.
You lie and smile, but I go home weeping,
At the very sight of my own reflection.

Did I warn you of my unfortunate smile?
I hope I kept it hidden for a while,
Until the next line shoots up my nose
I will shade you from my tears and woes
And smile and laugh and forget that I’m…

Thursday, 14 January 2010

Kate Bush

Friday, 8 January 2010

The Goodfella

He christens the ground with the Camaro’s wheels,
Nods his head to the radio as the engine squeals,
Down the infinite stretch of auburn sand,
Smiles at the thought of once more holding her hand.

All the way from Mexia, Texas
He’s escaped the tight unity of his inland nexus
They frown upon him as he leaves the cabstand
But he stupidly laughs off this cold reprimand

He thinks how mediocre his life has been so far
And how much better it feels to be driving this car
Because he didn’t pay for it, and he doesn’t have to think
About work the next day or seeing the shrink

Thursday, 7 January 2010


From an early age I would look at photographs from the 60s and 70s, and recognise how everything was much more free, there was experiments happening, people were naive and happy. Everything looked much colourful. I'd listen to my dad's cassettes, and look through his records, mesmerized by the boldness and the excitement of it all.
When I was 3 years old, I noticed a VHS tape on mum and dad's TV cabinet called 'Marc Bolan 20th Century Boy'. I was scared of the front cover, because I couldn't work out whether Marc was a boy or a girl. I put it in the video player. 'Dandy in the Underworld' came on and I was instantly mesmerized. This androgynous man pouted and sneered at the camera, with a cringeworthy mime, but still, this was far more interesting than 'Toybox' or 'Clangers'. This was fascinating. This was rock n' roll. This was history, dark and lively, glittering and enchanting.

Old images and sounds are, in my opinion, far more interesting than the watered- down sanitised media diarrhoea that comes out of the 21st century.


When I write, I often delve into my childlike imagination and think of monumental buildings, eccentric architecture and vast, decaying gardens.
These themes played a prominent role in my childhood, as I often had recurring nightmares involving strange buildings. 'Nettie' is the first part of a short story I wrote about a recurring childhood nightmare. I was seven, and the dream happens exactly how Nettie's dream happens. The second part involves a crazy woman that lives in the house (which, i think, stemmed from my fascination with The Priory in Oughtibridge), chasing me and my dog Lucy off the property.
I have always been interested in grand buildings, partiularly those that are unkempt and neglected, there is a certain charm and character that will always inspire me.
Examples are;
The Overlook Hotel in 'The Shining'
The Marsten House in 'Salem's Lot'
Miss Havisham's house in 'Great Expectations'
Mistlethwaite Manor in 'The Secret Garden'
The Priory, Oughtibridge, Sheffield
An unknown mansion in Wigtwizzle, near High Bradfield, Sheffield.

It makes you wonder what the history is behind these places, who lives there and why are they so neglected.

Aladdin's Cave

This room smells like home,
The musty space is filled with trinkets
An Aladdin’s cave of the 21st century.
For when I walk through this door I feel safe
Cut off from the dour torment,
And sick exploitation of hollow fads.

She, with the dark bob and mad eyes,
Comes forth and barks
‘Put those handbags back when you’re done’
I had not even begun, to feel the leather
Or inspect the ageing fastenings, undone…

Boxes of jewelled history, dull and enchanting
White go-go boots, scuffed and slanting;
Towards a deep chest of scarves, paisley and lace,
Cravats and collars of an acquired taste.
I could make myself a pauper in this treasure cave
To the old film reels and sounds I am a slave.


I am lying on a cloud…
Pieces of your picture;
Lost and found surround my mind,
I am awake, but dreaming
Of the day you come back, seemingly
So far away I that I will wait forever.

One month passes, two then three…
This photograph;
It is scuffed and blurred,
And your voice is so soft it can hardly be heard.
But your presence is still here,
A living breathing prodigy,
Of when we last met.

A year goes by…
This faint image;
It dies, resuscitated by my mind,
And from the depths of consciousness
It blooms, branches shoot, blossoms emerge,
Alas, the thorns of time scourge.

Wednesday, 6 January 2010


Its early morning, the city sleeps,
The memories of old friends she keeps,
But she is not alone, this is a new home,
A new horizon to dance, to roam

A horde of glittering girls passes her,
But their vegetable culture does not surpass her,
Blinded by their wicked shiny culture,
Repulsed by these plastic vultures.

Hands over her eyes she walks forth,
She loses sight of her own self worth,
A glassy tear runs down her cheek,
And freezes the soul of this girl so meek.

She comes home to a bountiful feast of friends,
Laughter and chaos they proceed to lend,
To the girl who waits to smile in the sun,
Panic over, and a victory won.

Now you know you will be alright,
Do not give up when faced with plight,
For here are the people that will see you through,
And a city that holds a future that is not blue.

New Year's Eve

I came home in the early hours
Bruised and bleeding
My life has turned sour
Its just normality that I’m needing

Lost my valuables in the club
I’m so fucking stupid, I give up
I need a rest, a break from these drugs
That devour my senses, on my heart they tug

I’d like you to think I’m a simple girl
With composure and confidence, a love for the world
But there are so many things that I hate about me
I want to get better, I want to be free

The room was dark, the walls were moving
The euphoric feeling was too soothing
Lost my sanity and my cool
Then it passes and I look like a fool

The next day is hellish, the comedown is harsh
Feels like I’m sinking in a soul swallowing marsh
Maybe one day I’ll learn not to piss everything away
To keep my head above water, not to sink into the pain.


I listen to Crystal Ship with a candle burning,
And I see what is to come.
I see a big house in the country,
And the pain is there but numb.

I see grandiose dreams and sunbeams,
Reflecting in your eyes,
I see you floating like an angel,
Tripping on your own demise.

But we don’t see it coming,
We think its not too late,
We carry on in our costumes,
Until were stoned down by the weight.

I see you looking so tragic,
With a halo of auburn tresses,
Your pale skin and silver rings,
In one of your ketamine messes.

We stay in that house forever,
Until its turret roof rusts to verdigris,
Until the cherubs are covered in lichen,
Until your sour wine kills us innocently.

I guess we had a beautiful time,
But now into hell’s arms we climb
Because you’re a fucked up Dionysis
And what you say is wind and piss.

Another Quualude

Stay away from me boy
Your poison’s too sweet
You’ve got me trembling all over
From my head to my feet
Pick up your suitcase, catch the 4-10
Another Quualude, and you’ll love me again

Smoke rings in the sky
I see the future in your eyes
Where we sit like gods in an ivory tower
And our wicked souls bathe in meteor showers
Leave me alone before I fall
I aint gonna come no more when you call

I’m the only one who sees who you are
Beneath the sly exterior, the false façade
But who are you to impose your views?
When you thrive on a diet of reds and blues
You are just another parasite
Waiting to feed off my every plight.

Nettie (short story)

Snow flakes settled on Nettie’s pie crust collar, she looked down at her feet as she stood on the luxurious frozen carpet, the same colour as her tights.
It was not night-time. Neither was it day- time. It was kind of half-night. That surreal time period that normally takes place only in one’s dreams. The moon was not full, it was awkwardly missing a thin slice. Under the crooked moon was that place.
462 Priory Way. This must be it.
Nettie felt an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. This was the place she had been to before, as a child. She remembered a hazy half-night just like this, but warm and musty… Seven year old Nettie was taking Herbie the Yorkshire Terrier for a walk. They skipped along Clough Terrace, past the derelict annex, and climbed over the stile to which they came a path.
No, Herbie. It’s nearly dinner time and daddy will be worried.
Her legs couldn’t stop.
The dog wore a whimsical smile, and ran up a path. But no, there was something really bad about this path. Something was pulling them there. Something that had been decaying, that smelt of granny’s attic…
A glassy tear rolled down young Nettie’s eye, it shone in a sunbeam that had found itself through the trees.
Don’t cry, only babies cry!
Curiosity. Curiosity and fear. Sheer trepidation.
She walked down the path, it was aligned with deciduous trees all green and lush, at the left was a crumble set of stone steps that spiralled down to the bottom of the wood. Alas, the fear heightened when, at the corner of her eye she saw a young woman in a dark green dress, sat on the bottom step burning what looked like clothes… she was staring… with a menacing grin… and sat still, just staring like she was going to hurt poor Nettie… and… and…
She was incredibly thin, cheekbones so prominent, hands like raven’s claws black with filth, skin stretched over her collarbones as if it was going to rip…
Nettie slapped her hands over her eyes in horror. Then, her fingers parted slowly to create a little peek-a-boo hole. The woman was gone. She looked around, still, she was gone, as if she’d been vaporised.
She resumed her journey along the soil path, looking ahead as that place became more and more lucid. Herbie sounded like he was right at the top, next to the cast iron gates. Through the gates was the most beautiful courtyard you’ve ever seen, tall monumental oak trees, ransacked water fountains harbouring mould and weeds, crumbling stone cherubs covered in lichen… a circular courtyard it was, with the biggest fountain in the middle, and a shiny Aston Martin parked near the gate, the engine still running.
Go home Nettie
Now, at the far end of the courtyard, the front of the building was visible. It was a monolithic, Grand Guignol- esque monstrosity, verdigris roof covered in dead leaves and filth, beautiful turrets, reminiscent of the time she visited Sewerby Hall earlier that year, except there was no statue of Amy Johnson.
The leaves filtered out any remaining sunlight. It was so dark. Yet the building was framed with a soft warm light, like towering seraph. She wondered whether she should go on, she was trying to walk but her legs felt so heavy as if the were stuck in mud… the building faded, the leaves fell from the trees.
“Nettie! Nettie! It’s seven o’clock, time to take daddy to the station!”
She opened her eyes and looked at her mother’s immaculately painted face.
“Good morning, mummy. Let me get dressed, I’ll be down in ten minutes.”
I can’t wait until next time I fall asleep.