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.

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.

Galazy.

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.

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

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 

unsure.

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.

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?
Dickhead.

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.
dickhead.

Grrrrrrrrrrr.

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.