It’s quiet now
Deadly still
It’s always so cold in Suffolk

Even a fiery heart couldn’t heat things
Up and she’s not yours anymore
Was she ever?
None of your concern

She’s happy now
Look into her eyes
Or don’t, I guess that you
Can’t make it out in her
Low res photos

But she’s happy now
Happier than I can remember
When you both sat here in the
Kitchen six months ago

So keep telling her about Sweden
I’m sure it would be a romantic break
If you were together
But she’s happy now

The sun’s kinda low today
Dontcha think? The frost
Is pretty thick
I guess you’ll be taking this walk alone

Breathe It In

So let’s put some scores on the doors
As this whore’s on the floor
And we’re finding this all
Far too familiar

So take a deep breath and
Dive in, fall in, collapse to your knees
Or tip your toes, trace them against
The bottom, scrape the enamel with a nail

Then bounce back and come up for air
Breathe it in, take it down
Cheap perfume and chlorine
Chalk this one down to experience

Or a learning curve
Just as she learnt of the power of hers
We all surface and lay down
Colder than before, yet far wiser

Who’s keeping track, who knows the drill
The march, slow and steady,
Regimented and relentless
Towards the climactic finish

And we all know now that we’re just
Pieces of dressed up meat
Sweet sacks of skin
Tossed idly over white bone

Breast stroke, back stroke
Keep your hands to yourself
The water really opens up here
The currents could pull you down

Dry yourself down and get dressed
Nobody drowns on my watch


He’s not there
But was he ever
Briefly, yes but flickering
Phasing, fading, trickling

Passing out of existence
And then back into a stupor
Ghostlike, his empty soul
Echoes in the gloom

A husk, a shell
We know that he’s
Just barely breathing but
Far from alive or well

Is this a little too close for comfort
Too close to home, are the
Manacles rattling against the oaken door
Be gone, be cast out, step back

From the looking glass
The sand runs from the hour glass
Peer through it as it darkens and
Like your fucking life.

An Elegy For Mortality

Stand up and be counted
Or crouch down, on all fours
And skulk, slink, slide away
It’s better to live on your paws
Than die in any shape or form

Bipedal or quadrupedal, it
Matters not, we all fall and
Rot the same way, like pears
Tossed from the tree to the ground
Far too early, and food for the ants

What would you do with ten more years
What have you done with the last ten
The same shit on distant days
A memory haze
Drip, drop, through the catheter

So, all’s quiet on your front
Or is it louder than a thousand suns
And brighter than a bomb blast
Call it what you will, a day is a day
Is a day, forms a year

Sit down and drink this, comfortably numb
Like your knees and forepaws
Dose yourself, dope yourself
And face another day

A People’s Porsche

blog 3
I have desired the Porsche 944 since I was five years old. Actually, that’s a lie, I’ve desired a 1986 Porsche 911 Turbo with the massive whale tail in Guards Red wi…oh hang on, I need a cold shower. Anyway, with £3,000 sitting in the bank I plumped for the people’s Porsche. I’ve always admired the sheer unashamed 80’s cool of it, the beige carpet interior, the sharp faux futuristic lines, the Nightrider-esque pop-up headlights.
I’ve been reading up on them for two or three years, online reviews, users guides, wikipedia articles and trawling Autotrader so I know all the good and the bad. I’ve never seen the phrase “bombproof” used so much outside of a Hurtlocker review and apparently the car is fixable by anyone with a basic mechanical knowledge of farm machinery (I am not among that number), however it is still a Porsche and servicing can be (not IS, CAN BE) pricey. I’m 25 years old now and have been driving for 6 of those years, with no claims. I got a price for £450 to insure, which I was pretty pleased with considering that its a 2.5 Litre. So, with a “you only live once” (I won’t be abbreviating that) attitude I got myself a Lux FH. After trading in my Yaris, I had money left over for the insurance, a full tank of petrol and still had change from my savings.
blog 2
I’m not particularly fussed by what people think of me, afterall I have been driving a 2002 Toyota Yaris in a nice shade of Parking Dent and Rust for the past two years, however the reactions of peers and coworkers has surprised me. A close friend of mine came for a drive with me and was effusive in his praise, rambling excitedly about the great condition and what a beauty it was. Then, oddly, at a social gathering the following week when asked what he thought he joined and even led the mockery. Yes, mockery. I’ve never batted an eyelid when my friends have bought cars and yet somehow mine became a subject of group discussion.
Despite being the sort of person who spends several hours a day on forums for months researching purchases as mudane as computer graphics cards, my friends seemed to be under the impression that I swanned into a showroom and threw my wallet at the closest thing I could see. Everything from “rustbucket”- it has a galvanised steel body, to “thirsty”- I’ve been getting 33mpg, was slung at it. A work colleague, who drives a five year old Ford Focus said “I’m not daft enough to be lumbered with a huge loan like that”, yet I bought the car outright. Which is odd as his car cost twice as much and a 1.8 Focus returns probably 3mpg more to the gallon. A friend who bought a “designer” hatchback (you know the type), on a five year finance plan called the car “silly” and implied it was part of an early midlife crisis. Yet it cost as much as 8 of her monthly payments and, by my rudimentary maths, would need to cost £1,200 in every service for ten years to be more of a drain on my pocket.
blog 4
So perhaps it is jealousy, or if not then my friends feel that far more of my life is their domain than I do of theirs. Regardless, I smile like a Cheshire Cat every time that I step out of my front door or put my right foot down on a straight.
In my next blog I will talk through, in as journalistic a fashion as I can, my early ownership experiences and offer a first review of my new toy.

September Update

So, a quick summary of the latest developments

Swannui and Cygnus is still cheap on Kindle, like really cheap. 77p in the UK. You can buy it in Beccles Library, Beccles Books and Studio 21a.

The Power Of Fiction is a post about the reactions to the first part of my novel, Seraca.

Seraca Part 2, this is the second part to the novel. I’m not sure i’ll post much more of the novel, or at least not in a linear sequence.

And All That’s Staged Is The World is one of my favourite recent poems. It’s not featured in Swannui and Cygnus and represents a second phase in my writing.

Oh and I bought a 1988 Porsche 944 Lux FH, which I’ll probably write about very soon.

Seraca II

I left the cafe, lightly buzzing from the extraneous coffee, and began to wander down the highstreet. It was a wednesday afternoon and the cobbles were hot with the footsteps of hundreds of shoppers, browsers, window shoppers, malingering youths and pensioners. The pensioners weren’t contributing to the “hot footsteps”, they bleated and mumbled, wandering and meandering in front of all others, seemingly intent on impressing onto the youngsters just how meaningless and aimless their trip to the shops was. They were counting down the days til death and were at pains to demonstrate the paucity of their existence. I pushed roughly past one such pensioner, a woman whose cracked and withered body seemed to imply that she was devolving into some variety of goblin-like creature and that the transformation was near to complete. After passing the butchers it occurred to me that I was not in a rush to be anywhere, and had in fact nowhere to go. It was only then that I realised that the flat I shared with Jade up until about twenty minutes earlier was no longer my home and that I had only to return there to collect the cliched black bin bags of clothing that were sure to litter the front lawn. Having very few clothing items of value and even fewer reasons to see Jade again that day I decided that my first port of call was to be Jeff’s house. I turned left by the newsagents and down the narrow passage, past a group of chavs who attempted to intimidate me by pulling their t-shirts up over their faces and shouting racial slurs which were more bafflingly inaccurate than offensive.
Five uneventful minutes later I arrived at Jeff’s abode, rang the faux Victorian bell and waited on the step, taking in the rich oaky scent of the door and admiring the small cabbage patch covering the garden in lieu of a flower bed. After an appropriate amount of time the door swung open and the haggard shell of Jeff stood before me. He’d put on weight, not dangerously, but enough to notice, a bit around the chin, a ripple on his belly, visible under the pastel blue shirt and inoffensive brown jacket. His hair line had moved back, again, not significantly, but enough that I noticed. He seemed to be looking to compensate for this through his lush spouting of facial hair, thick and soft, a “real” beard as Jade’s mother would no doubt have said. One not normally worn by a man of 30 years, not a fashion statement but not a mess, it framed his face and covered his acne marks and the scar he’d taken from the glass fight in his student days. He look tired. He didn’t disguise his surprise at seeing me.
“Peter, what the fuck, Peter?”
His eyes narrowed and he laughed loudly before grabbing me by the shoulder and effectively dragging me inside. I followed the brutish scholar into his study (first door on the right, cabbage patch view), it was simple and utilitarian in design, it felt cold and clinical, much like a therapist’s office. A desk sat in the far right corner, piled high with books yet none were open and the stack was precise and clean. The whole of one wall was a built in bookcase with all manner of dusty, leather bound, frayed tomes of varying importance, reputation and obscurity. The only other item in the room was a mahogany and leather sofa, on which we both sat. He turned in to face me and began as though he were continuing a recent conversation.
“Well, where the fuck was my invite then?”
“To what?” I replied. There were many events over the past two years (had it been that long?) that i’d neglected to invite Jeff to, more out of apathy than vindiction.
“To what? To what? The launch, the bloody book launch! The biggest occasion of your life, the biggest party of my life, and you didn’t invite me? I mean, sod the book, Sir David Frost was there, wasn’t he?”
“And Robert Winstone” I muttered, though perhaps not wisely.
“You prick, I bet you had hundreds of tickets, and I know you, I bet it was just you and Jade, and she only went because she opened the envelope and you only went because she made you!”
“Damn the book Jeff, the book was a bomb. They tore it to shreds, it was that bloody Newsnight Review, once any one of those urbanite, wealthy, pretentious arses watched it being bled on tv they wouldn’t touch it. That Craig Thomas in The Guardian sai…
I was cut off.
“…that ‘for a work so steeped in it’s apparent convictions, Seraca not only lacks any real substance but also patronises and condescends it’s readership. It preaches to a choir, one which is thankfully choking and dying in the pews’. He splashed four stars on the Twilight book yes, but he’s also a bloody good historical scholar. His paper on The Winter’s Tale lit up a whole new discussion on Shakespeare’s body of work. He’s bloody good Peter, maybe he got it right about Seraca, maybe he didn’t, but he definitely read the bloody thing and that’s to be applauded. 982 pages man!..
“986, without foreword”

The Power Of Fiction

I’m not a particularly prolific blogger, I only write when I am inspired to. Sometimes inspiration strikes twice in one day, sometimes my blog lies dormant for weeks at a time. I’ve managed to splutter out about 70 posts now though and the reaction to 1 post in particular has surprised me.

Seraca Part 1

This extract is taken from the first draft of the first chapter of my unfinished novel, Seraca. It is (or is planned to be) an emotional chronicle of several young adult’s experience of childhood trauma. There are four characters; Jeff, Peter, Jade and Sarah. The extract featured on this blog details an argument between Jade and Peter, seen from Peter’s eyes. It is often alluded to that Peter is prodigiously talented.

I am not Peter. Seriously, of all the reactions to all my posts, the comments and questions I get about Seraca baffle me. Peter is a minefield of complexity, a talented writer with more baggage than Jordan’s make up team. If I am Peter and if I believed I was a genius (and trust me, reading back one of my blogs is enough to bring me softly back to reality), then why would I write about it so explicitly? Nobody is that vain or that brave. It would be akin to painting a bulls-eye on the back of your best suit jacket and walking through a Mancunian’s stag do paintball whilst singing “You’ll Never Walk Alone” and wiping your bare arse with a photo of Sir Alex.
I am not a genius, I am often quite stupid. Many people who know that I have a degree will look at me and speak slowly with a bemused expression as they try to explain something supposedly simplistic for the seventh time. Peter may be a genius. That is why it is such a challenge to write sections of the novel from his perspective.
The second thing that people ask me about Seraca baffles me even further: “is it a true story? Or based on a true story? Is Jade *insert an ex girlfriend’s name*? Is Jade *uses own name*?”
Seraca is a true story to the extent that the movie franchise Fast and Furious is a true story. I have been dumped by women and some people with considerably more income than me drop £15k on tuning Toyota Supras. Seraca is not a memoir or a true story, it is fiction. It is writing for effect. It is creativity, it is original thought, it is a spark of consciousness, it is the splash of sentience that separates (most of) us from the bonobo chimp.

J.K Rowling wasn’t a magical 13 year old boy and E.L James (probably) hasn’t been bent over quite as many times as her protagonist.

Dirty White

Step up, turn back
The mouse bleeds clearer now
Coward, return to lay on the moss
Procrastinated, desecrated
You are not time
I cry that beyond all this lives
A candle from the tears of a phoenix
You rise once more, turn, then run
I am fear
Exsanguinate the rodent, drape it’s corpse
Over your flayed back

The taste, flavour of your screams
Addictive, you take up all the space
In my box, my cell, no light
Bread and water and a mouse’s nose
No one lives for themself alone