welcome to the show

I sense the enormous gap

Between the public and the private 

With a watch we wear at weekends

With a brown strap and a polo shirt

We never much liked horses, we just liked to wear the costume 

And we only wear the black strap on the weekdays in the office 

Back vents are not acceptable

And neither are breast pockets

We must adhere to etiquette because of the people watching us. 

We cannot ever think of owt that isn't image, and living as the eighties lived, although they're long since gone.

We're decades in the wrong place and we're trying to live the lifestyle

Of all those who passed before us, who gave us everything

Yet they're not the ones that pay us, their gifts to us are fleeting, feeling more to us like cheating, as we're told to pay our dues

We look towards our leaders, the morally-bankrupt cheaters,

With broken, yellow teeth, piercing eyes and hubris that we can never share.

Welcome to the show. 

We hope you've earned your place, 

And now, with upturned face, you stupid fucks adore us, prostrate yourself before us, and tell us what we're worth. 

know me

I'm a broken man
Nursing unfulfilled dreams
Stumbling along the streets of degraded city scenes
The people as they pass me by
They try to look away
Fearful at my icy stare and what I might just say
Until I stop them, palm on chest and ask:
Before you die
did you wanna
meet me?

swide

What was the fuckit rate, back then?

All this bile on trial

Looks and smells the same. 

Like rotten hell

Like the time I picked up a rock in a stinking alleyway,

Only to find it was covered in wriggling maggots

They had as much a right to life as me, 

But somehow didn't seem as important. 

I didn't play out for long,

But dreaded going home,

To the fog of rage.

We might have been on the fantastic voyage,

But why was it so painfully bleak? 

Surrounded by people who all knew better,

Had toiled longer,

And had their answers,

But still weren't happy. 

I could see it on their faces, when they looked at me,

As if I'd missed their expectations by a country mile,

Hard, tough love that never spared the child,

So I kicked them in their faces,

And told them to stay, the fuck, away.

Who cares where the commas go?

As we meander towards the blackness of the end

And the point of no return,

We contemplate the downward track, realising all ascents are in the past.

Our bones creak

As our heart cries out

What is for us now?

Until we realise suddenly

We're in it. 

I hope, by then, I've made my peace. 

the pressure

The pressure of standing up, my head holding up my body... As the world looks on, denying all leadership, looking for direction, ever lost, as usual.

The lines and the rhymes just write themselves, as we meander our way into hottest hellfire, unaware and ignorant, yet completely in control. 

Souls shouting, to be set free, no longer myself, just at the end of my rope. Hopeful and aimless, taking on health, shedding my skins as fast as I can.

Wondering when the paragraph will end.

It's hard to be the one in the room, that files past the corpses, forced from their slumber, hoping to move onto greater things... 

chrysalis

The grief of passing
As the old self falls off
The dried out chrysalis
Of everything I was
Waits to be replaced
The overflowing life
Expelled by the nothingness
Floods the vista
With room for nothing else

this's how it feels...

This's how it feels

When your life's running out 

As the tall, staunch objects scream and shout and scream and shout 

And tell the smell below their nostrils 

Things won't do

Things to be

Will only come 

Fighting, flying, flowing in

Eradicating all our sin

Is a rhythm

Humming

Beating out a path

I'll go first

And see you then

We're not ready

We're just hiding

However we can

Wherever we can 

Behind the masks

Behind the veils

We launch our ships

With their great, big sails

Then look so busy

As the sun goes down

We look so silly

As we prove our worth

Then we're lost from the Earth 

And we don't even know

The end of the line 

And the end of the show 

On we go, to the next sweet life

To meet our folks and our one, dear wife

And noone ever knows 

Where we've been 

Or where we've gone

And the rhythm's beat 

Goes on and on. 

grasping shits...

Grasping shits, all over my hands, squeezing, stinking, wherever it lands, finger in my anus, is all I really know, becomes my best friend and my greatest foe, as the night falls and the rain never stops, as the paths are all slimy, they're the best that I've got, is there noone straight on this crooked earth? as we live bad lives right from our blessed births.

Someone's gotta make the Baby Jesus look good. I'm too bad to mention Him, more than I should, but at least I'm rememberimg more than before, Lying in the wet sand, on the dark and coldest shore, with sand in my trousers and a bruise on my head, at least I'm still here, and I'm not yet dead. 

song sound (poem)

I wrote this in 2017...

That's the kindv way around,

Leading my old heart to sing,

Finding my internal sound.

Dreaming of my next-best thing,

Hearing all the things I've found.

And the pleasure that life brings.

mesh

Lost my shape

Among the needles

Lying in wait

Turning to jelly

Waiting for the Ubermensche to send for me; the ones who did the work.

Dan Dare and his posse

They come to rescue me

With spells and incantations and pieces of space-age mesh.

I'm glad when the higher beings come.

They don't say much, it's best I don't know.

I just feel a sense of peace when they visit and stand by my bed, speaking to me about marvellous things, of visions of new lands, by the power of their minds.

More than a murmer, their words are like a reassuring tune that calms me.

"Charles... Professor... Stay here, with us."

And, I do. 

Hostages to the Die Hard debate

Every December the same thing happens.

Someone puts on a jumper. Someone pours a drink. Someone says the words.

“Die Hard is a Christmas movie.”

And suddenly it’s DEFCON 1.

Eyes roll. Voices rise. Someone storms off to Google. Someone else starts shouting about intent. Another person starts explaining structure like they’re defending a PhD thesis in a pub that smells of gravy.

But here’s the thing. This argument has nothing to do with Bruce Willis, explosions, or whether Hans Gruber deserved it.

It’s about Christmas itself.

One camp wants Christmas padded, predictable, emotionally regulated. Soft lights. Approved feelings. Violence kept well outside the ritual circle.

The other camp knows Christmas is already a hostage situation. Family tensions. Forced joy. Emotional landmines hidden under tinsel. For them, Die Hard isn’t sacrilege. It’s honesty. Blood on the carpet. Love under pressure. Reconciliation through chaos.

That’s why this argument never dies. It’s not a film debate. It’s a values test dressed up as banter.

validation requested

Yeah, please tell me what I want to hear.

Whether I'm any good, or not. The fear I'm not accepted may limit my capacity to be revered. 

I've tried the drinking and more thinking, I've tried to be Chuck and Johnny and Mac, I jump forward, shrinking back and dithering, trembling, afraid I'll never be famous. PLEASE, GIVE ME WHAT I WANT. I'll do anything and be whatever you desire. As my soul drops to the floor, I look for resurrection. Make me immortal: that's all I ask! I'm already greater than most men, in my own mind and estimations, at least. I just need distinction and recognition and don't care what it takes to get that. I don't need fame and to receive awards. I just want to be revered for the genius I am. Do your part, beloved fans. 

space

Stifling the primal scream

As the world requires that I ebb away

And repress all the things I have to say

Again, in the common interest

Keep on keeping on

Is our exhortation

That we would chisel into our gravestones,

If we could afford them.

As we collapse into dust and seep into the ground,

Everything we knew and the truths we found

Were lost like tears in the storm.

When the last person who remembers us is finally gone,

All that will be is the myths and the legends

The stories we tell of the known, re-wrapped in the new,

Will warm hearts and inspire minds,

Before being recycled back into truth, as fire ignites, so these never-ending thoughts, which appear to be ours, continue to operate further and further into the darkness of space, until they're lost or found.