Friday, 21 September 2012


That musty smell of attics and dust
Circles around the Dynatron rust. 
The chair creaks, knows what’s to come,
That good old crackling hum. 

The cardboard sleeves that smell so old,
Contain the sound of angels, bold.
Angelic whispers of Bolan’s heart,
Charming and brave, the finest art.

Rat Race

Dragging along, face down
People rushing past, that familiar sound
High heeled shoes, car doors shutting
Into a machine, lives they're putting.

On and on, the clock ticks slow
Under the halogen blinding glow
The numbers listing, coffee spilling
Six hours to go, there’s no giving.

Smile and nod, know your place
They don’t know who you are, but they know your face
Gossip churning, stomach’s turning
You don’t know the shit your learning

The last hour, this is the worst
If this is forever, my head will burst
Fuck this life, it’s not for me
Get out now, or never be free.

Tuesday, 11 September 2012

The Day I Started Writing Again

Typing ‘One’ at the top of the page. I hadn’t done that for two years. I thought, as I was typing, eager to let loose and let go of everything in a world I was going to create, that I couldn’t have helped it. I had been dead for two years. How can a dead person write? It was 8:58am, Tuesday the 11th September 2012. This was the day I came alive again, and fuck, I'm not going back to where I was before.

A Soul Inane

I sat down, cross legged and closed my eyes tightly.
I tried to think of something that would make me want to write again. Something that reminded of when I used to be happy, truly happy, which was a long time ago.
It’s always the people and places that are the furthest away that I remember most, the old smells, that attic smell. I could hear the sound, although distant, of an ice cream van. The music it was playing was ‘How Much is that Doggy in the Window’.
I could feel the wind on my face, goose pimples on my arms as it got colder, the air was fresher and it no longer smelt like stale depression. It smelt like those happy, bright mornings when I couldn’t wait to get up and play.
There were geraniums, that leafy sweet smell of geraniums in the morning. Freshly cut grass, yeah, it was fresh because I could also hear a lawnmower. I could feel my backside, legs and feet were getting moist and the ground was changing from thick pile woollen rug to a dewy lawn. Jackdaws above, cooing. Footsteps, loud footsteps, maybe someone with large boots, and a smaller set of footsteps, a little dog running around panting in excitement of a brand new day.
The sound of runner beans falling into a basket. Someone whistled and the dog halted. I slowly opened my eyes, looking forward, scared. It was blurry, like a dream, but it was a very familiar council house, I was sat next to a long concrete path with a white painted railing, and all down the sides of the path were these beautiful geraniums, pansies, fuchsias, in all the colours of the rainbow. This old man walked down the path, with his basket of beans, and I knew who it was.
 "Annie, get up of the grass, your mum won’t want you to stain your trousers will she? Here’s some pennies, get yourself an ice cream."
Granddad. And his dog, Bonnie.