Back to Home


Along The Dew

Along The Dew

A solid thud his body made upon the snowy ground. The noise reverberated through the trees and along banks, drawing the attention of the creatures that reside. They peered from behind the bark and saw him crawling through the sleet trying desperately to find his feet. Without fear, and vengeful, they sought their upset prey. A dappled crew began to descend. The warmth of his blood rose through the freezing air near where the crows were waiting. His cries fell on deaf ears. His struggles were inane. His feathered honours lay strewn along the dew. Decades it had taken him to gather those awards. A tail for each of his victims; now just ironic ornaments that decorate this gory scene. Without fear, and vengeful, they sought their upset prey. A dappled crew began to descend. The warmth of his blood rose through the freezing air near where the crows were waiting. Bloodied and ruthless they circled and struck with widened eyes. One assailant could be seen wandering away from the melee towards the trees. The sunlight broke and glistened on his trophy; a claret covered brass between his teeth.

Thrissell Street

Still half asleep. ‘At least the weathers nice’, I drone implausibly. A shallow tone that longs for the comatose from which I just awoke, where all of the realities that plague and torture me are kept safely at bay. No such luck. These eyes are wide-awake, this brain just will not stop tormenting, circumventing. Slowly losing the fucking plot. My legs drag me insipidly to the edge of Thrissell Street, where I take my common seat and rue every single fucking decision. Hair clenched, neck tensed, teeth pressing down. Anxiety decisively takes over everything and leaves me alone tapping my feet to that same old beat.


I scrub up quite well so it would seem. I told the lady at the counter that the suit was for a wedding. This made me giggle later whilst stood in the dock, lying through my teeth. An act for which I cannot apologise given the scum that put me there. They were shrewdly decked out in buttons and stripes. The back-scratch society was in full swing. Lying through my teeth, shirt out, hands in pockets. My favourite bit was when he complained that this had left him deeply distressed. Tell it to your prisoners and exiles. We’ll see how much pity you get. A fucking grass. Destroyer of lives. His tail between legs. Me, Jon and Glenn laughed the whole fucking way home (Fuck the UKBA).

Though Bloodshot & Blurry

Spun out, anaesthetised, waiting for the gloom to set. Brown bottles fill the grubby floor next to the bodies that exhale in unison. I wipe my eyes so I can see; though bloodshot and blurry they still beam. These aches and pains are brief but they can't shape what we have seen. Running low on fumes, but high on speed, we load in and back out hoping somehow we could move on forever and not reach the end. We say bye to our new friends who’ve restored our faith simply by giving a fuck. Then it’s on to the next one where it's more of the same; determination, resolution, grit, and there was me thinking we were dead and gone. I guess I was wrong. Though worn out and weary we’d rather be stuck in this tin can than doing something we couldn’t care less about and wasting time button bashing, metal bending, changing barrels, crushing limes. Set it up. Roll it out... Inspired, we ride on ‘all through the night’. Zeke blaring loudly with no end in sight. Armed with new found resolve. Stirred with fury and rage. Determined, without remorse for tyrant or foe, the dealers of hate. Headache subsided, eyes clearing up. Load in avoided, what a stroke of luck. And when asked about it there aint much to say. I guess you had to be there to find it all funny. Running. Fuming.

Deep Rooted

What was once so intimidating now seems so fucking puerile. Faces are masked; concealed by the shame. Voices are dubbed; styled to fit. I can see it unfolding right in front of my shoddy eyes like some sort of surreal stage play where every sentence is easily forecast. An agonizing slow motion replay. It’s almost as if I’d seen it before or were able to move the pieces myself. It’s freaking me out. Fuck this, I’m off… Wait! What’s going on? I can’t seem to move. The effigies unwittingly repeat themselves and re-trace their fate, over and over. Draped in their colours and chanting their favourites. Unaware, minus bliss. They can’t hear me screaming. Agitated. Disconcerted. Forced to view… Help me! I have to get out of this seat. Can’t watch any more so I wriggle and fidget. I push with my hands and shove with my feet, but I’m stuck. Deep rooted.


Roll in the pump trucks. Lay down the carpets, screw in the bulbs. Roll in the forklifts. Tape down the edges, paint over cracks. “Attention please! Attention please! A bright red Mercedes is blocking the road. Would the owner please contact a member of staff?” Tie neatly fastened. Plant pots in place. A conniving smile begins to rise all over his face as he neatly lays down the brochures. “Attention please! Attention please! Ladies and Gentleman, the arms fair is about to begin”. Send in the scumbags. Let them flick through the gloss. The newest edition with one key omission; they seem to have left out the images of kids holding guns, of cities on fire & mothers in tears. They must have forgotten to put them in next to the graphs and diagrams.


The bile. I can smell it from here, emanating from that hole in your face. The same one you use to denigrate anyone that fails to use the right words at the right time. The same one that runs whenever it gets the chance to argue the toss. That's 'coin' not 'wank', before you begin... Determined to fragment, just to gall at the mess. A voyeur of distress, hell-bent to impress others of ilk at their patronizing best. Lest we forget who's running this shit show from up on a horse so high I can barely make out the silver spoon that's been jammed inside your mouth. Let it all out. Deflectors of shame, shepherds of blame. Let it all out. Don't forget to close the door on your way out.

Chalk & Flint

Stand firm. Don't wilt. No faces. No names. No Pasaran! I feel a mixture of anger and sorrow for my foolish foes. I can see them through the cracks; sun bouncing off their skulls, chants drowning out the seagulls. Nylon streams of made up crests held so tightly to their chests. Flags held aloft in front of the pier; no fear. A sorry sight to behold, they could have been stood next to any one of us. They could have fallen on either side of the line but that basic desire to belong to something, anything, takes hold no matter how absurd, farcical, vile… Just along from the iconic cliffs that are made up of chalk and flint, run the bigots. I can see their flags being pulled out from their hands. No Pasaran!

Luciano Ponzetto

I like to think that that on his way down Luciano Ponzetto had one final reflection on what he had done, and had accepted what was to come; all of the way down to the ground. But somehow I doubt it. A wry smile rose across my face as I turned the page. The prick had it coming, of that there's no doubt. All the way down to the fucking ground.

Llygaid Gwyrdd

I like to think that that on his way down Luciano Ponzetto had one final reflection on what he had done, and had accepted what was to come; all of the way down to the ground. But somehow I doubt it. A wry smile rose across my face as I turned the page. The prick had it coming, of that there's no doubt. All the way down to the fucking ground.


We sat huddled near the top of the staircase and exchanged worried expressions. We'd been here before. Just sit tight and breathe. I lean forward so my hands could cup his ears to muffle the screams. It’s no use. Their voices continued to rise; one hostile, one out of fear. There was fuck all we could do. The front door too far to reach, the landline was out of sight. His tiny fingers grasped hold of mine and then he looked me in the eye and asked “why is she crying?” A vase smashed against the wall. A body thrown against the door. You can never know for sure when all this becomes the norm. When you're lips are sealed out of shame and fear and you can’t fight back tears. When you can't begin to help the ones you love because you're scared to interfere. When you're praying that someone else will somehow hear. These lurid thoughts maintain the scars, but now that my hands are no longer trembling or small I'd like to see that prick once more. Retribution would be swift. The hand that fed will soon be bit. How many of these walls are hiding similar scenes? Violence? Distress? How many of these faces are masking what they have seen, and can't forget? Freedom peace & love are kept at bay until the built up rage begins to fade. I'll get there some day. We'll arrive some day.

Far From The Callous Crowd

False Dawn

Once more the masses have all been absorbed. They laugh and cheer, completely enthralled. One man out runs them all. The anthem plays, the crowd applauds. Throughout the affair the flag waves proudly. A constant reminder of where I belong. I cast my mind back just a year, where the tunnel we thought would run forever began to bare light (so bright it blinds our fragile eyes, accustomed to this murky state). In went the stallions & armored combatants. The hooded army stood firm despite the largest of odds. Their anger could not be detained by batons or hoofs. As expected, the image that fills the screen is one of disarray; burnt out cars and shards of glass. A glut of buzzwords frames the scene. The column inches write themselves: ‘Arsenal at the ready!’ ‘Armored rear compartment’, ‘wire bars and bulletproof glass’. Live rounds are fired precise to 70 yards. Still the spotlight seems to shine on the throwers of stones and those prepared to toe the line that runs throughout everything that we’ve ever known. Etched, carved and cut into stone from the Ritz hotel to the Tesco store. Scratch it. Cut it loose.

Far From The Callous Crowd

Far away from the callous crowd in setts and dens the weak distress. Huddled underneath the soil, so confused and so perplexed. The Glaring nexus evades us all. This disturbing image plagues my waking thoughts. How perfectly it illustrates our blatant ongoing neglect of everything that falls around our fabricated, blissful realm. In which we immerse ourselves in fables and guides. I sat in the back of the wagon that day, between the lab and the station gates. I’d never seen or met her before. She couldn’t care less about their numbers or rank. Half their size, but completely unfazed, she laughed in their faces. Whilst awestruck I noticed, right below the pin badge that affirmed ‘food not bombs’, the ‘NO BORDERS’ patches that were sewn into her hood. Nexus grasped. The placards that were held aloft in the distance read ‘shut it down’ as they marched right through the town towards Sequani. Shut it down.

Just Add Water

I can’t switch off this fucking gauge. The shit of bulls, it resonates. It’s all too much; I wish to live the malleable alternative. But it’s not possible. Once it’s on no going backwards, slowly becoming contemptuous to the bone. The illusory news flash reports; the recurring ad-break purports; the deceptive voice of god implores. The state official assures once more that it’s my interests to correspond, pray, ingest, assume & simulate. And I wish that I could obey, cos’ insight aint what it seems. Aspirational ease. I crave the dull routine where I no longer have to contend. Just add water to the blend.


The waters muddied, the pieces falling short with no resemblance of human worth. The same end result, engineered conclusion. Barring any free flow, no compassion or refuge. No respite! Viewing the world through blind eyes. Detached and bought, you digest the lies.

Touch Paper

Touch paper lit. Flame moves ever closer to fuse. The instructions read ‘stand back’. They can now be found floating through the air, torn up by the mad and resolute that seek reprisal. This manifests itself in the newest of ways; bus fares in Sao Paulo incur the people’s wrath. Most of them were probably cyclists anyway. But tire or foot tracks, it doesn’t matter. They all lead to the same place. A common accent echoes loudly, falling perfectly into tune. I can hear it from where I’m standing; thousands of miles away where the wasters keep on wasting and the advisors always beam with satisfaction due to the inactivity of their subjects. I smell bullshit. I despair. The standby light turns red. Without even thinking my eyes glaze over & my ears digest what the box has to say. Hair and make-up complete, the painted man stares at camera three and critiques… I clench my fist in solidarity. Touch Paper has been lit. You can stand where you like.

Memoirs of Heath Park

The mottled leaves swept by the autumn breeze went whistling past my snagged and muddied strides. Night began to fall, clouds gathered above and rain drove in from the sides. ‘Why the hell am I standing here?’ The odd tear fell from cheek onto soil as I fell back onto the bench that bears your name. I took a deep breath, then exhaled. There was no hopeful look up into the night sky or any of that shit. I just sat there numb and motionless amongst the disconsolate scene. It was pretty fucking drab. The open field gleamed beneath the moonlight as I wept and considered what had and will never be. There’s no one around. I’m not surprised. It’s just me. These damp images flood right back as I lay anxious on the kitchen floor, hysterical. ‘No! Not again?’ But your face says it all; hand over mouth, eyes lowered, knees bent with your arms wrapped around me. I blame the floor, walls and doors. Striking out at the hand life dealt me. Rage, anger, wrath. Hurt, angry, weak. Can’t speak. Eventually the calm sets in and I consider all things I never said to you both.


Recited defense. I’d heard it all before. ‘It could be so much worse’ he banally replied. ‘Your so full of shit’, I finally snapped after absorbing his pap for far too long. Those within earshot stopped in their tracks, open-mouthed. Their desperation was palpable. Begging me with their eyes to switch the conversation away from what could expose their slack, hollow judgments, held only to assume a ‘liberal’ standpoint. Don’t they all look swell? The ones in the back couldn’t hear a single word over their t-shirts exposing Che’s face, and Bono’s voice blaring from the over priced dock.

A Room With A View

A room with a view filled with leather green seats where the bastions of power sit and play their games. Thumb over index they continue to orchestrate a finely tuned choir, singing songs of praise. Hell, fire and mortar overlooking the water. A shelter for cowards finely displayed.

Turbid Milieu

Don’t give an inch! Bright yellow jackets neatly aligned, that never-ending drone of the chopper in the sky. The snap of the baton, a thud against the shield; be strong, keep moving and keep your eyes peeled. “Keep your hands off me”. “Why are you here?” Some are excited some are in fear. Well now aint the time to be weak at the knees. The battle lines are drawn, feel the kettle squeeze. Don’t give an inch! Pile on the pressure. Don’t ever recoil. Operation Glencoe… Is that all you’ve got? The tension in growing, the cameras are rolling. A stunned Mr. Broadhurst clutches at straws.


I’ll bet that the photographer laughed just as much as I just did. By the time I’d stopped a few more pages had been flicked. Same snapshot different dicks. I’m not sure if it was their ridiculous hair dos or misplaced pride. Either way, when put against the wank, soppy texts in the full length interview it became clear that this was slapstick at its very best. Buried on page twenty-three next to the perfume ad. You gotta laugh.

The Starting Bell

Chinstraps are buckled. Boots are secured. The bookie ascents and chalks up the odds. In the background the popping of corks can be heard. The going is ‘good’. The paddocks are locked. Lights, camera, action; ridiculous hats fill up the concourse. Spirits are high as the passionate crowd part with their notes (3-1 the favorite). The sun begins to shine down upon on this dated scene where toffs and pretenders play out their roles as squires and lords. A pitiful sight; archaic wankers surrounded by shite. The P.A announces the main event. Mr. Claire Balding describes it again as the stars of the show are lead to the front in bright colored jackets, parading their crops. Cheers and excitement as they ring the starting bell. Drama and commotion, more of hope not expectation. Whipped ‘cos he aint fast enough then killed because he fell. Betting slips are crumpled out of anger and frustration. The starting bell sounds again.

Grand Collapse E.P

Grand Collapse

This way of life, much like the resources it callously consumes, is finite. Of this you’re aware but still you persist to hold up this structure, which is built on foundations that cannot withstand this pressure. When it crumbles the people will walk amongst it’s waste, and cry when they evoke memories of times gone by; where the few decreed the many. Alone and in tandem these powerful factions contrive to control and exploit the population. They convince us of their relevance, or threaten us if not; that dominating instinct just won’t go away. What will you do when you’ve taken it all? Or your only dimension has exhausted its ideas? When the people you shat on are knocking at the door; pitch forks, lanterns, feathers, tar. As the crowd begins to form, identity concealed but its wrath on show. In unison; for once in accord. Having dismantled those tacit divides. Palms begin to moisten as you realize that your most fervent adherents are no longer at their posts. Resentful, but focused, their voices coincide – ‘we’ve had enough of listening to your systematic shite’. Alone and together, no matter the cost. Cracking mirrors, sweeping smoke. Ousting what has forever endured, plagued and scold our every move. Without the fear they had previously suffered, angered hoards advance on their captors. Eagerly anticipating, longing, waiting for their smiles to drop; towers to burn.


It’s the hottest day since records began. Unprecedented temperatures, due to man’s failure to realize what will soon be his demise. He shat on his own doorstep, but still wonders ‘why?’ His business partner smiles now that profits have soared. He’s been invited to dinner with the chairman of the board. Sure, he had to cut corners, but look what he has gained; there are birds drenched in oil, monkeys cling to what remains. Water levels raise, in crashes the tide. You’ve reached the bottom of your limited supply. There’s nowhere left to run and no-one you can bribe; no amount of money can keep you alive. Water levels raise, in crashes the tide. What the fuck did you expect? Are you really that surprised? You pushed it all too far, now we all pay the price. Not a ingle penny can keep you alive.

Ailment (No Cure)

Mind fuck persists. Water drank, ticket claimed. Elation prescribed. The patient sighs in relief and retains peace of mind. Complete faith in their view and the letters that are post-fixed to their names. Mind Fuck persists. False acronyms start to form. Powder encased in gelatin capsules. Retailers of calm; sedated consumers beseech no matter the cost. The crudest form of avarice. Droves of children dosed up to the eyeballs. Behind them, parents, reaching for their pockets; held to ransom. Meanwhile men in white coats, with clipboards, patrol the caged aisles. The residents of which it is impossible to envy. Still, 'their plight is crucial to the progress of our race’. No, that’d be the market, you’ve got to ask the question - is there something sinister in their search for ... Remedies for ailments; no cure.

For web enquiries please contact