Tuesday, 13 February 2018

Every which way but...


I know this platform,
These tracks,
Those tracks too.
I know this place.

God I know this place;
There I drank,
There smoked too.
I know these platforms.

Once I caught the
Yellow train
And found myself
In Liverpool.

In Liverpool,
The first day,
I moved myself
And I was caught.

Somewhere between there and here I was caught in another way.
I’ve told that story a few times. A kind of movie.
Sometimes your journey starts halfway through another one,
And you can find yourself in a duo for the rest of your days.

I know this platform too.
These tracks
Those take you
Back home, to drink.

Oh I wanted to drink:
To shout and show
These tracks
I knew those platforms too.

Once I said that
I tried to get home
So I went up front
And tried to drive the train.

(I said I tried to drive,
But in actual fact
I just saw the open cockpit.)
But I said that,

Because it was a good story to tell, and I enjoyed telling it.
And I enjoyed believing it. So did the people that heard it.
They wanted to believe it too. And, really, really, who
Was I to deny that? Who was harmed? So fuck it.

And these platforms -
To Wales or Manchester
Or Leeds or wherever -
To countless gigs.

To countless gigs
With mates and magickers
Seeking the pleasure
From these platforms.

I’m here again,
But I don’t know which way
I’m supposed to go, and
I’m confused by this.

I’m confused by this
For a moment; which way
These days is home?
I’m here again.

It’s a strange feeling, isn’t it. Seeing the same brick and rusted iron
That’s stood for longer than I could, though year on year it changes
Slightly, but inexorably. I spose I do too. Some of us can’t.
That’s a strange feeling. Well, it’s not a fun game. I wish these platforms

Could help me travel
Not to different places
But to different times.
Back to those moments.

And back to moments
Where some now-faded faces
Are sharp-drawn and fine.
Only fleetingly can my sad mind travel

To those times.


Lost folk art at a station in the North West of England.


I once took a picture on a long-gone phone. I wish I’d kept it.

Maybe I have somewhere. It was one of my favourites.

In Chester Station, it was. Platform 3B. You had to squat to see.

On one of the tracks, somehow, someone had managed to scrawl

Or scratch, into the actual metal itself, some graffiti.

It always struck me as a stroke of genius, and entirely silly.

Because, to access that track you’d need to drop down six feet

Without being seen; you’d have to lie down alongside it, making sure

That nothing was coming, going, or ready to decapitate you.

You had to lie there, scrap metal in hand, for minutes on end.

And all for the knowledge that nobody would ever be able

To identify exactly who it was who’d written, on the train track,

At Platform 3B, in Chester Station, some time in the early 2000s,

The potent words:
Trains Are Gay


Wednesday, 7 February 2018

In the Castle of the King



Here now.
The unwashing, the unwilling washed. The computer-illiterate and the coding whizzes. Some with heads in books, some heads in clouds, some heads half-on or not-on-really-at-all.
A thousand languages: fictional and fine alike.
The stragglers, the unstinting hagglers. The losers, the ill-thinkers and the brooding misfits. Rent with haggard hooks, rent yet still proud, rent but belonging. Here, simply. And, more,
A thousand thousand stories: tunnels to minds alive
Here now.

These bricks.
Clay, concrete, powdering one day. Holding in the knowledge. Holding out too. A bastion. Maybe a battlement. Maybe a haven. Maybe none, maybe all
These things are hard to reconcile, depending which
Way the political bounders will sway. Holding onto spirites which hold our few attractions: maybe a befuddlement. Maybe a heaven. Maybe all will fall,
These bricks.

So still
Pounded by the gouging minds of mudruck-progress. Pounded by efficiency, cutbacks, gristle. Pounded and bent. But not broken. But not smashed. Here the call,
Hear the call, in its infinite transience. Variation
Founded through space, time, a fumble-witness astounded by intensity. Call back, whistle: no grounded descent but an open, cut-throat hack at them, all
So Still,

Waiting
And – why? And while we wait we think. We think we have time to wait; but the knowing of the moment is the key. The way. The unforgiving distance
Run. No future, no past, for all under
Stand why futile restraints are sickly. Since Ahab’s fight, the whale’s country showed him that the sea-descent sets you free. Today. The underpinning resonance;
Waiting.

So still.
Hounded through facetime, a grumble-sickness unfounded by necessity, Google’s bristle of growling intent toward doped-up, dumbo-facts. But then, still
Here, a halting, specific sentience of a nation
Astounded by the spicy signs that undercut success. Bounded by a misery so black; a thistle-down malevolent song for the trashed, for us all
So Still.

These bricks
Play the part. Physical boundaries still stay, folding into sites which hold our new distractions. Shining in the firmament, daily a rhythm, daily and daily toward
These things that mark out the endless file of endings which
Play, soul-sweet murmurings as they soar within their passage. Bold, free, stout aromas belong fully to settlements heavy or brazen, daily songs a call to
These bricks.

Here now.
The strugglers, the unstinting jabberers. The bruisers, the still-inkers and the grooving artists seeking Odin’s rooks, tenets bestowed, instant and buzzing. Here, simply adored,
A thousand languages. Passionate, with minds alive
For unwrapping, the shelf-filling staff in the library grasp minutiae as standard. Each morning fizzes along with steady, locked-and-ready crowds, requests for tomes half-known, for books or advice or to talk
About those thousand thousand stories. Wonders for minds alive
Here now.



Sharky bassline

I writ this today after being inspired by Chris Dale, who is a brilliant and very silly bass player.

Thursday, 1 February 2018

Self-indulgent bullshit stream of consciousness because of social media photos' way of intercutting timelines and buggering up people's thoughts OK my own fuck you too

Ah yeah I mean yeah I remember and you look sort of the same sort of unbearably twee and that is why I wanted to fuck and that is fucking still stupid and yes I did write a song about you and yes it was a forty or forty-five second harangue about how boring and snobby you were and yes there was an obvious subtext of yes I wanted to well there we were about a few lines ago and a load of decades have past I said DECADES and there you are twee as fuck smiling all the time with sprogs blabbering around and a twee partner and twee house and twee rararara and I wonder whether I was jealous all along because I knew you knew what it was like I mean the way or the method or the secret or maybe just the being of being happy.

And you were really nothing aside from nice as I remember albeit naiive I mean I was but in a different way yeah I was a sort of angsty looking for sort of Rimbaud type naiive even though I still haven’t bothered to read Rimbaud DECADES later apart from a quote that is something about deliberately deranging the senses if you are a poet that is all that is left but I am not a poet and I am all that is left really of myself back then so who is to say I am better now I definitely do not believe I will ever work that one out I just know that all these years later I think my confusion was also quite energetically pursued in one way or another but because I was sat around angsty sloganning and all that I forgot or turned away from the way the method or the secret or maybe just the being of being me

Whoever that was whoever it is whoever in between and if a life is thought of in linear segments then that makes sense I forget the philosophy of it but I liked it because it is an eternal present at every sampling stage and a person is all the people he she whatever ever was like a baby and a not quite man and an on paper middle aged scruff and those DECADES instead represent just like I dunno a jigsaw puzzle no that is not right I think it is more like you cannot see the whole person from the outside in this way without seeing all the people they are and were and will be as a kind of whole and those images are all valid and all correct not just one tiny shitting fiend somehow becoming bigger in size and learning things good or bad right or wrong and all of that crap before getting strong and then immediately weakening again and eventually going back to being a wizened and 

as Lou Reed said 

toothless clod 

once more but no that is not it it is impossible to see it from the inside anyway and the whole exercise is useless and I long for the day I forget and turn away from the way the method or the secret and maybe there will be no being be me be anymore and there will be no anymore anymore and I see these words and think fuck

Fuck


Cufk

Cfku

Why does it make sense one way and not the others
Why do I care
Why do I feel I should care and do not want to care
It has got gets will get in the way of

,



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.