Cigarettes, Beer and Love
With you inside. This bed. Undressed. And the radio humming. We fit each other, as if new socks. Tight and taut. Our eyes then take a trip, coaxed by feel. We are nothing, but
‘It's coming on Christmas They're cutting down trees They're putting up reindeer And singing songs of joy and peace Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on.’ (Joni Mitchell)
The best of Nick Drake, spinning like a coin. The northern sky, just out of reach.
Hung over like a broken bridge, in this florescent rectangle. I’m gazing at a ceiling, designed by a minimalist My head screams, my eyes drip. The caffeine addicts,
I know these things today. They take years to heal, to unravel. Most afflictions, are a ticking clock. As a child, in the beginning, he was my hero. He could make me laugh,
Good evening everybody and welcome to the first of these Tuesday night newcomers meeting of Cocaine Anonymous in Stepney.
January 1987. And the number one song in heaven. 'Reet Petite' by Jackie Wilson. The radios of Berwick Street market, chiming crackled soul. And do you remember? it was the worst for years.
Brace yourself my dear. It’s a holiday in Cumbria. Cut short. The market place. A Kendal mint cake crisis. Paperbacks. bric a brac. frisbee cd, a cup of tea. Silly old me.
Flaked, muddy window. Aerial wired rooftops. That I cannot afford, to frame anymore. Lightning phrases the sky, thunder applauses. Spotlighting me back, an era of smiles.
I stole you from him, at the college disco, under a neon moon. It was the crime of the century, come Monday morning. The bee's knees of Basildon, the peroxide princess. Taken by the Ra Ra.
For Frances Lawrence He bled an ocean deep. Filling your rock pools, with rage. But it's not your fault, the tragic demise. It was to the bad hands, of generation. The unloved boy,
To her. He was one of those days. An unpaid bill. Spilling blood on his sold life. He took the wrong turning, into her chocolate coated eyes. She melts away now. He sucks her wrapper.
In the town of Kleek, from the county of Blaise. The kiss of the only girl, Whistling him gone. The splutter, then rattle. The dying minstrel, born Jackson Plude. His silver eyes set,
A friend said today. That I have to split love. Between, a reason, a season, or forever. I'd never heard that before. But it makes a sense. Although it's still raw. I think of her,
Hunted, by you, all over town, like debt collection was savage. Your hair. Your legs. Underpinned by wine, in overdraft bars. Name dropping, like breathing. Insecurity, laid bare.
I have investment here. Over the knots of a century. It’s bound around the fraying years, on a cold cleat of memory. So loosen time and pull boys. Flex the sinews, let’s heave away.
The wind wraps me into you. And I can stand this. For I am swept again. This isn't melancholy, crashing a wave, a lost riptide. I am clear on that. All of that.
Sitting at the bar, waiting for the band to play. Two-tone drink in hand. The DJ playing late Clash. Pork pie hats enter the room. Then a face that he once knew, loved beyond reasonable doubt.
This England. High sky, mid-afternoon. Its early summertime, and a light rain falls. Here we both are. Standing. Hand in hand, amongst trees, bees, butterflies.
The net curtains twitch. Mondays itch, as I walk by. Yeah. I’m this pure driven boy. Walking your streets. Hear me now! Because. I can cut you down, or make you sing.
I think of us fading. In that old house. Sometimes, listening to music, through silence. Van Morrison for me. A Prince for you. Tea, cigarettes. The occasional flicker.
Earlier, and now. Inside, then outside, of this Edinburgh festival. In the steaming rain. You are my sunshine. The only sunshine. I’ll tell you this. Again and again.
The odd things that flutter into the wild and dyslexic mind of Jamie Spence in the intense seconds before he wakes. They always cause terror, sometimes genuine wonderment.
It’s raining blood on a Bleaker Street bedlam. Nothing but dead horses, broken carts. Every phone box has become a mad motel, for the gin soaked, screaming hearts.
Re-edited because of some kind and helpful comments. he origanal version is at http://www.abctales.com/story/ralph/red-rose-palookaville-0 Interested in views.
In Burnley. In the county of Lancashire. In the country of England. It’s a wet, Friday afternoon. There’s an October slate sky, and the car park is full. Kerbed on a backstreet,
White shoes, White socks. Under the palm tree. Waiting to spin. Monday nights, are my night. Homework skipped, for higher ground. When it comes, this record. I’m free. Flying.
In my room of books. Warm radio noise. Yorkshire tea. Across the landing. The bath runs. She’ll enter it soon, and the soapsuds will sigh. From this chair. October drizzle presses,
They are burning good books for warmth. Eating cats and dogs for tea. Chewing, laughing, and screaming. I can see them in our street. They are talking rabies on the radio.
In the bookshop. In Basildon. We bonded. You with your cookbooks. Me behind the till. You asked me around. For tea. Pie and cream. I accepted. There and then.
There were rumours, of decimalisation. A new decade in modernism, at Manor House Junior school. It was the summer of 1970. Of Esso World Cup coins. Fools gold for heroes.
My ex wife sitting naked on the bare stone floor, smoking my cigarettes, listening to the songs of Leonard Cohen. It’s the coolest thing that I’ve ever seen. There has been no sex.
I was at home on the phone talking to Eve my missus. There were no long distance kisses because we were having a row. I called her a cow and then a silly little madam. She said.
In my room of books. Warm radio noise. A northern cup of tea. And from this chair. The October drizzle mourns, the death of the sweet pea, and my breath to a memory. One exhale chokes.
I remember the exact moment that you and I fell in love. The Italians have a word or saying for it, something about a thunderbolt.
We have wounds. I tell myself this as I finger the scar on my cheek, wince at the film of it in the mirror. Memories are blood.
He’s a Sunday morning goalkeeper, goes by the nickname of BNP Griff. On Saturday nights he downs a crate of lager, a couple of grams of sniff. He’s...
This morning I am 50 and I wait for new blossom at the kitchen window. There are signs. Emergent pink wings that flesh skeleton trees. And I’m still...
Brace yourself my dear. It’s a holiday in Cumbria. Cut short. A Kendal mint cake crisis. Market Square psychosis. Paperbacks, bric a brac. a holy cd...
With you inside this bed undressed. And the radio humming. We fit each other as if new socks. Tight, taut. Our eyes, a trip, coaxed by feel. We are...
I remember it. The day I came. My joked flat cap on. We passed Tinsley Tower in the rain. And you rolled the windows down. Made me scream, 'HOW MUCH...
January at Bretton with our hats on you look at me warmly. 'That one's by Gormley', you say. 'I adore Moore', I reply. 'Stop trying so hard'. You...
I was six years old. My dad got me a prize For scoring an offside goal. The Gospel truth A record player. Made by Bush. The levers clunked and its...
A chemist in Hackney. I had acne. You, a yeast infection. Oh how we laughed! Ha ha ha.. On reflection I shouldn’t have mentioned that political...
January 1987. 'Reet Petite' by Jackie Wilson. The radios of Berwick Street market, chiming crackled soul. And do you remember? it was the worst for...
We have wounds. I tell myself this as I finger the scar on my cheek, wince at the film of it in the mirror. Memories are blood. I walk downstairs...
Hey Clarence! You say that every time a bell rings an angel earns its wings. It’s hard to believe unless you have a crazy faith but isn’t it the...
When I was very unwell earlier this year and in a clinic, I made a friend named Zak. Heartbreakingly, Zak found the world too much to live with on...
Friday night alive with the metronome. Payday peacocks say farewell to the week. Showing our colours on Old Compton Street. Pecking the streets of...
As we walk through the theatre doors into the neon lit foyer, the coffee bar where the festival folk gather, you sigh for those other visits here,...
At Kala Sangam in Bradford late Sunday afternoon, one singer sits on a hard chair waiting for the other to take the stage, tune her guitar to the...