May 03, 2010

Rhymes and own–brand lager.

~ I'm childish, and like re-writing things. I should either dedicate this to Grimsby, or to Kerry Katona. I'm not sure which is worse...


There Was An Old Woman Who Lived In A Shoe

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe

She had so many kids; she didn’t know what to do.

She suspected at least twelve different dads,

The lack of child maintenance sent her quite mad.

She fed them on ‘Iceland’ family bags

And when they played up, she burnt them with fags.

But when the kid’s wounds were spotted at school

In came social services, out went her rule.

Although she’s in prison, each night she thanks God

She doesn’t have to deal with those twelve little sods.

royal oak GY

May 01, 2010

Foetal Sonnet

~ A sonnet, with a painfully forced rhyme scheme. I've also had to put in little asterisks inbetween stanzas on account of this formatting being evil.

As oppoed to e loving, gushing, or even vaguely sensitive ode, this is based on a work by one of my favourite nutters, The Marquis de Sade. So yes, here's my adaptation of 'Philosophy in the Bedroom', with pretty much all of the smut taken out. Sorry.


Saint Ange

As summer fades with its own inertia, deaf Gods breed and grow.

Dead husks of tracts scream into time the greatest folly of human reason.

When the fallen sing with hollow breaths, and we reap what they sow,

The first begotten of the dead sets our minds ablaze with talk of treason.


Tear down the seven stars and engage the prophets in libertine games,

As they deafen us with a seraphim dirge

That burns our ears and casts our virtue to the flames.

Dolmance prepared our burial chamber and all our souls did purge

As we blissfully scream Golgotha lullabies to blackened mud.


We drown the frail child in blasphemous rhymes

Until our saviour’s tears taste of wine and wormwood,

As we seek absolution, then repeat our crimes.


We waltz until Saint Peter’s gates do slam

And we meet once more as fragrant Krakow Lambs.


"In order to know virtue, we must first acquaint ourselves with vice."

April 30, 2010

Patricia 201025

~ A writing task that grew... briefly. And then was promptly forgotten about. It's not creative, i'm just re-telling facts that are a little too close to home. Names and locations haven't been changed. I'm lazy.

Another poem. I'm sick of this already. Actually, i'm not sure if it's the poems, or the fact that i'm sat here eating honey in the dead of night.

Patricia 201025

At the asylum,

Bricks and mortar are

Our great divide

The shadow in the teapot

Sneers back at me from bitter tannins

“pour out the tea”

Pour out your sins with a lump of sugar

To sweeten.

I tried to write,

To explain why I was sorry

And ashamed.

But it wasn’t my fault-

When you replaced your ‘beautiful Patsy’

With the beautiful game

And we used the children as a


I knew we were strangers

Just sharing a bed.

I only ever liked you when you were drunk,

When gin became your cologne

And your smell lingered on our bedsheets-

Remember? Egyptian cotton, top of the range.

When you left,

I covered them with snaking lines of flowers and vines

To make a tablecloth

For afternoon tea.

When the children faded,

And you hid my pills in a packet of Marlboro

To stop me climbing the walls,

You found me in the basement

Scaling the floor.

They said you drank to drown your sorrows,

But you almost drowned me too.

Now the ink won’t stop bleeding,

However loud I scream.

The paper deafens me,

And I know it wouldn’t cover the distance.

Porchester Road to

Pym Street.

A few miles,

A gulf.

The words would arrive stale.

In time, I’ll pour it all out

On warm, soft parchment

Smelling of gin and cheap fags.

On your veins, on your eyes, on your hands,

On your skin.

On skin.

Writing on skin.

aston hall

April 29, 2010



'Loneliness adds beauty to life. It puts a special burn on sunsets and makes night air smell better.'

~ Henry Rollins.


~ In order to keep this blog semi-active at the very least, here's some rather old, painful poetry.

~ Loss can make people drink, over-eat, harm themselves, or others, or just waste away. Me? I massacre the English language in a vaguely verse-like form. Oh well, it kept me occupied. I wrote this quite a while back, in late September. It was the first poetry i'd written in years.

Also, this poem. It's all true. every word. I don't think the memory of that crow will ever leave me.

Friday 10:30

When they played Aerosmith

At your funeral

We tried to smile

As your photo

Danced with the vibrations

Of that bloody guitar solo.


We stared and waited

For that same stupid grin

When we’d forgive the big joke

And go back to yours

To act like kids

And whinge about school.


But you made the vicar cry

And we all held it together

For your mother

But when that crow came

And sang to silence

No-one dare breathe.

Year 11. Patto. Football.

April 27, 2010

I am writing poetry, therefore am deep and meaningful.

Haiku #1: Failure




And to finish, a quote from the wonderful Miss Josie Long. I feel it sums up my approach to this art form perfectly.

...'at that time, I went to see a performance poet who I found really inspiring, which is a shock because obviously, normally I would despise performance poetry with the level of hatred that's appropriate. Which is, if you don't know, ALL THE HATRED YOU HAVE IN YOUR HEART...'

paul calf.

"Is it a crime to hit a student across the back of the head with a snooker ball in a sock?"

February 20, 2010

White Horses

~ A heavily edited version of a short piece of fiction I wrote concerning my hometown.

No doubt i'll be editing it another hundred times before it goes anywhere.

It's 3am and I need some sleep.

White Horses

I followed the wind until it brought me home. Back towards the frozen north and back towards the rush of the white horses against the rippled beaches. The sand is cruel and deceptive; it tries to conceal tenebrous pools of oil and discarded hypodermic needles under its gritty blankets, but the locals know better, and don’t stray off the promenade.

Far from the strained creaking of rented deckchairs that are little more that woodworm fodder, away from the cacophony of banal tourist chatter that fills my head with white noise, is the heart of the old town. It still beats, but is far quieter than before. Here, the air is thick with salt, so that if you were to stick out your tongue, you could taste the sea and long-passed hauls of fish. This rusted carcass welcomes me more warmly than any council-erected tin sign or aging illumination.

The buildings curve towards me, welcoming me back in a loose embrace; the only sound the smack of rubber soles on damp concrete. But if you strain your hearing enough and focus, really focus on the silence, you can hear the echoes of old sea-shanties. For a fleeting moment, I thought one of those voices could be his. A reverberation from the times we ate chips in the car and the newsprint stained our hands; when we’d sing off-tune duets as the rain came and reduced the radio to static. Here, magic is not conveniently presented to you in a gilded frame or a plastic display- you have to be patient and willing.

Passing the rotten facade of the market, I remember the mornings we spent pushing our tiny hands into the ice buckets, relishing the satisfying crunch of fresh ice and then suddenly, the jarring coldness. I catch the scent of fresh whitebait and recall the times we used to play with them in the sink, back home, until they broke apart in our grasp, or mother yelled it was time for tea. The smells are engrained in the mortar; press your nose to a beam and take in the centuries-old smell of fish, blood and tobacco. I saw the discarded packet of Lambert and Butler on a window-ledge, left to decay. For a moment, I wondered if it had been his, but it’d been too long.

Without missing a beat, the snaking side streets call me further into an eternal labyrinth of crumbling fascias; rub away the grime and re-read my grandfather’s graffiti. This is where life began- in amongst the discarded wooden crates and clunking pipe work. The buildings are still vibrant, great sky-kissers made of dusty red brick. While the rest of the world continues as one great Ouroboros- building and destroying in equal measure, the old town lives on. In the centre of this maze is an almighty amphitheatre, cloaked in grime.

As I tentatively run my fingertips over the stone lettering, some small flecks of paint break free and fix themselves into the tiny folds in my fingerprints. My heart contracts in systole as the frozen surface of the brickwork causes me to quickly retract my hand. I’m nervous, as though trying to reconcile myself with an old paramour. Since I abandoned my rusted coliseum for more southern climes, I fear that my love is unrequited.

As faint raindrops began to darken the rich clay tones of the brickwork, I turned to leave. And with it, I heard those faint jovial bars float through the holes in the missing roof tiles ‘Way haul away, we're bound for better weather...’. All at once, both history and time are fluid, and mine to control. Here lives the rattling echo of my childhood, the scent of my father’s cigarettes and the distant murmur of my grandfather’s songs.

As the skies tear open and the rain becomes unforgiving, I run through the streets, remembering every abandoned business, every alleyway until I reach her. Our almighty sentinel, rising from the aphotic waters to pierce the clouds and gaze upon us all. She has the appearance of the eye of Sauron, and is as resilient; surviving all that nature and man can inflict upon her, through warm and bloody seasons no bomb or wave has dislodged her timber pilings, and she stands unchanged while her children rot. As time drags on like a drifting seiner, we all must leave home.

Soon, the uneven roads become tarmac and the shadows of the ice factory turn to golden arches, I dare not look back. Although uninhabited by the living, the songs of forbears reverberate through the wooden rafters and corroded machinery, calling us all back home.

Grimsby Ice Factory

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