Friday, 13 September 2013

On the Brimstone.

the brimstone ballet.
the timid proud one.
Opposites magnetised to build tension.
Camden town council flats
next to Mornington crescent mansions.
Another London contradiction.
Two drinks in. Ten minutes from temptation.
Find a religion. Some sort of tradition.
Learn to stop the repetition. 
Nothing if not London.
Did she fall out of love with me or was it the city I lived in.
Every time we get together a part of me goes missing.

It used to be my world.

Now it's a monument to a world she's not in.
Tomorrow and a year ago.
From so far to go to the end of the road.
All on the same road.

Better off without that load.
Some cards I can't show.
Some looks I can't put into words.
Some rules aren't within laws. 
That's why he's not my mate anymore

dance another day in the brimstone ballet

The timid proud one.
Camden town council flats
Mornington crescent mansions
More London contradictions
Personalised number plates on Honda Civics.
Suped up mopeds forever revving up.
A city divided into islands.
Stripped shirt bankers on the backs Rickshaw drivers.
Soho nights with a Sober mind.
Playing Watch the throne on the back of a bus from a mobile phone.
I was Stuck in a Cricklewood crew.
The world seemed so small. Even from a kite hill view.
I knew I could do anything if I could just know what to do
At fourteen I heard, you can have the whole world, or be satisfied with the boulevard.
at school we'd shout "mine" when we'd see nice cars

but all of us were quiet when the big Bentley drove past.
I've spent years trying to break that silence
Wanting an even better life than what had been provided.
I was always telling myself, it was going to get better
you know who you is? You the greatest -something- ever.
I mean, always knew school didn't matter.
Grown with a resentment towards those who belittle others.
You know, Not the sharpest tool in the box.
Because I'm not a tool. 
I'm boxed in. I'm not in the box.
Not the brightest spark.
I don't need to be bright for you to get sparked.
Cussed. Cursed.
They can call you what they want.
Just know you never stopped.
Crawl when you can't walk
Scream when you can't talk
Dream when you can't sleep
Simple rhymes for complex times
write lines to make the complex simplified
This simple mind could be a gift of mine.

Friday, 19 April 2013

A history of silence.

Around eight
Every day that summer I cried
hoping by the time dad came
the tears would've dried.
But there's always be stains.
Faint lines for him to see
how his little boy had broken that day.

Sensitive, and in love with violence
consumer of as many batman comics
and X-men cartoons
He-man and Skeletor.
Lion-O and Mum-Ra
Spider-man and Venom
Batman and Joker
Power Rangers and Rita
Streetsharks, beetleborgs
biker mice from mars
and the teenage mutant
hero turtles
each one sung the same song
and through the throwing of a punch
I saw the difference between right and wrong.

Thursday, 28 March 2013


I drink because it's fun
and I drink till I'm drunk
till my thoughts turn to thunks
and my head is empty
with exception of my wants.
I don't want much
but I want her
and I want her so much
it kind of hurts
when I think about it
my mind gets heavy with thoughts
so I drink to lighten my load
and then i drink some more.

She loves the character Alabama
Written by that director Quentin Tarantana.

If music dictates fashion
I'd imagine she'd have given
every genre a listen
black and white pictures
from her last trip to Berlin
make her the Galaxy
chocolate bar of women.
Something I thought I couldn't afford
even when I had twice the worth
if not more.
Not advertised for the likes of me
wanting to leave gigs early
to play sonic 2 on his Nintendo Wii.
tears on a page- streets of rage without skates
your face so close to my face.

Some things I thought I could never see
once a week I'd treat myself to KFC
like a siren it's smell would sing to me
as soon as I stepped out of Farringdon station
sitting in the restaurant, wrapping chicken skin
round the chip would be the closest feeling
I had to calm before you came along
I try to talk but can barely hear you over the song
I need a simple thing to focus on.
Your legs- in those leggings
Your hair- in that hairband
Your words- in that mouth
I try not to think out loud
my thoughts aren't that loud now
and I don't feel a need to space out
I could even settle down
ease from this world
in the middle of the night
without making a sound
in an out of london house
two children and a second hand
BMW in the garage
"That's nice- what's the mileage?"
I don't know what that question means
and I dread it being asked.

Fuck. sorry.

Quiet and loud
timid and proud
i've tried to be everything I've been able to see
in the hope it would round me out.
find a key to escape the empty house
I share with my conscience who treats me like a spouse
from the window we'd watch the word tear itself apart
now all I do is come home late and all she wants to do is fight
it's so tense you could cut the tension with a knife
sorry for saying the word knife
I know a word like knife isn't right
but something about living in this city
makes listening to Joni mitchell not fit right.
Violence isn't an art. It's a language.

All the stars are held in light bulbs
i can see stories in constellations

I don't believe in god as much as I do religion.
I haven't seen mystical signs as much as guidelines
followed by nice guys living life right.
It'd be a life I'd like but I suffer from a lack of faith
to stick with anything that wont meet me halfway-
- right at the borderline.

Saturday, 9 February 2013

ensemble so far.

from the humble beginnings of a Pelicans wings
through jungles human beings have never seen
moving past trees and brushing on leaves
it picks up speed across rivers into seas 
creates hurricanes that destroy distant cities
crashing and breaking into a million pieces
legs turn into tornadoes
arms to storms
the voice seeks peace
on these deserted city streets
it's dying scream of the winds base
pushes the hair away from her face.
She's still got her knees up and arms pumped
He drags himself across the land google maps forgot
Just keep running.
This is a street for cars with tinted windows,
and people who knew where they where five minutes ago
where with the exception of your breath and heartbeat
all sights and sounds come from connecting streets
(Honks of
the roar of
these are the streets in-between streets
the place that takes everyone to a deja vu
red lights of stops signs taunt as a finish line
both going towards some type of bright light

Just keep moving.
his scuffed fists grab weathered bricks
Just keep breathing.
forehead rests against the wall
phlegm dangles from his chin
chest bounces as if on hydraulics
he sees polka dots emerge on the pavement
 and no matter the condition, every single person 
in a six mile radius has the same thought as him
"is it, raining?"
it hard knocks  the skin's soft spotslike a comic book landlord wanting rent
find a footing in dented cement and a broken leg
he takes a step forward but the knee pops
these are the rain drops we take as a sign from god
where you regret the clothes you bought from sweat shops
the spit slips into a puddle of green

Wednesday, 6 February 2013

Reunited. Double lp, world excited.

Two years. Hand on the rail
each step equates to a month I lose
and by the time I'm at the door
I'm back to when I spelt "her" as "you".
the bell rings.
There's a blur through the window
walking towards the door,
the silence between it being opened
is longer than the two years spent apart.
The latch turns along with my stomach.
my eyes take in every possible exit,
the door opens and all I am is 

And I look at her. 

And I still don't know. She looks a little different.
more comfortable and less delicate.
she's got a long black skirt and a blue velvet top.
We hug and I move into one train of thought
Her hugs used to come often
more often with less clothes on,
and distance.

Our arms slowly leave each others side
satisfied, like an after-festival bath.
we borderline sigh, lock eyes
and laugh.
Two years.

Where are you taking me
Where are you leading me to
What do I want. I don't think
it's something new.

She's the only one in and all the lights are on.
(Wasteful) I felt embarrassed for remembering
last month I had a one night stand with a woman
in a flat that had the exact same layout as this.
I don't tell her because it's not relevant
and honestly I don't want her to hear it.

I still see myself with her as a nineteen year old
who felt guilty when I felt her boobs in a hug.

She says she's bought too much.
but it's only when the fourth can's drunk
We feel warmed up enough
to talk of what was,
who's done what and mainly,
Laugh. At each other,
at those around us and mainly,
our past.
I ask about her acting,
it's stagnant.
She asks about stand-up,
I red stripe click, swig.
Her floor is wooden and shiny and

I'm tired.
Everything's naps in the afternoon, early mornings and late nights with walks home evaluating how gigs went with lamp posts. The parts I hate the most are the other comedians jokes. Nearly every single one is a type of a person doing an impression of someone better than them. Five out of six a shit Bill Hicks. On a bill of twenty one from seven till eleven- I rarely find someone I can connect with. Watching- It seems- It's- Misogyny. Racism is a no go but every night I'm hearing at least ten rape jokes. Per set. Until you spend a night watching twenty comedians you'll never know how long five minutes is. It sounds bad but what I think offends me more than the subject matter is how shoddily these jokes are put together. They bypass craft for the an easy laugh. Say they were bullied in school I want to say I bet through your eyes. the whole world has bullied you. Do you know what I mean I'm sorry I know you know what I mean. You get me.

I wait all night  to hear "Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the stage... See-An... Mahooney!" I pick up the mic stand wrong and get tangled in the chord having every eye watch my first line fluffed- and I'm, forced into this moment, but I can't force a moment or deliver blows. They have to laugh not from queues but because they want to and to not know why. It's a challenge but it's really fun. You know when I started I used to have my hands covered in lines, bullet points, but then that would me step out of where I am. I need to be, present. With them. which means talking till I find what room I've left my jokes in. it rarely does but when when it goes right they see all the little animals and faces I've been seeing for years. I get happy that I'm not crazy, or that I am and have found a way for it to work for me. It's fun. It's really alright.

She looks for my eyes
and finds me using the smile
that only she ever got to see.
I knew I was in love when I saw her.
And this time, I knew I was in love again.

She says something about missing me
and in that moment
all this heartbreak feels so teenage.
Three minutes of silence
as shutterbug by big obi plays.
a poetic moment ruined
by an ipod left on shuffle.

Sunday, 27 January 2013

Sonic unleashed.

Every full moon
my penis becomes a werewolf
that howls for you
He runs down the road
like an angry segway
eyeing out other dickheads to fight

what you lookin' at?
what you lookin' at?
what you lookin' at?

He howls for you
and eats donner kebabs
and prank calls mini cabs
barks at short skirts
gets kicked out of strip clubs
and when listening to rap music
says the N-word.
For realz.

He roams all of central london
and in the streets throws tantrums,
swims in trafalgar square fountains,
dunks people heads in after
luring people into thinking he's a dolphin

at comedy clubs he heckles comedians,
who say "we've got a right dick in the audience"
and he says "yeah. I am" and he comedian says
"Oh. Wow. Yeah. You really are"
and he then forgets all of his jokes.

he pushes over statue men in covent garden,
and when asked why he says it's because they ignored him
and bumps and grinds at student club nights
and after he's used up all of his freedom
he still hasn't got anyones attention.

Now it's oxford street, four in the morning.

what are you looking at?
you lookin at me mate
walk on, walk on.


he can't sleep yet
he howls
and barks
and huffs
and puffs
and screams
and he feels his skin
catching fire
but no doors open
no houses come down.
i find him the next morning
silent and strong.

Thursday, 1 November 2012

Love don't live here anymore.

Foot prints on a cloud
it's the small things i see
that remind me
you're not around.
Hearing texts
I hold my breath
I bite my tongue
to stop myself

How many stand ups
have really stood up?
I can't gig anymore
it puts my back up.
looking at picture of deadpool
and when it rings I can't pick up.
you need help?
I'll have your back
if you take my hand
but if not I don't mind
I mean I do mind
I just know it doesn't sound nice,
to put insurance on a relationship
but the last time I followed my heart
I got lost with too much left
and not enough right.

I don't know what it'll take for you to
mellow my mind.

now theres not enough time
for me to love another and myself
and if theres one thing I've learnt
from the lovers that have left me burnt
is that you should always come first

ring ring, me.
I don't want to talk.
but could you talk to me?
It's not me. It's not you.
I mean it's not me.
It's you.

The first love.
there from the start
and I don't expect you to call
but like clockwork you do.
Don't ask me if I'm well
when we both know
you're the reason I'm not.

I've been through a few changes
that've involved blowing second chances.

a part of me knows we're meant to be
but I don't know in what capacity
no one should take up every memory
so quickly.

I don't miss her.
(I don't miss her)
Only, crave.
I feel like we get calm
in the eyes of our storms
I only escape the palpitations
when I'm with the person
I'm trying to escape from.

We're a rose royce song.
about love going wrong.
but even in poems
we're not as poetic.
I keep on wanting to finish
but we're never near done
and I've left everything that
reminds me of home
so I can't blame where I'm from.

You can't understand unless
you're trying to be a grown up
in the place you grew up in
and know this new you is different
to the man that was promised.
And each pavement slab you see
is a reminder on how you haven't.

I wanted to be a super hero
all I've got now is a bullshit ego
and texts in my drafts I can't let go
and drafts on my twitter
and buttons that hover over numbers
and phone calls I can't answer.
and parties I don't go to
because the only fuck ups I can handle
are the ones that are on my terms.