Atticus

Drunken hearts scribble words of cold breath while water still
Lies next to you, the beating drown amongst flattened pulse;
Risked chants backwards (stnahc deksir) and still
Long dog days are what trip onwards, a riot to live and learn
And swim past the cruel guards, strum the blues;
Big calm on strings tagged crimson, our private interlude
Where we stayed together on devil's spoke, rise and fall
Of compassion, full of distractions on the waiting line.
Take a trip out of town, to my old skin
And once your heart stops beating, a beautiful lie broken,
Only the simple things can give away the things that I have seen.

A Sunday Evening

It's already a quarter to five,
day now gone,
(mis)spent
on pointless thinking
and inconsequence.

Tissues scattered and paper scraps
trinkled over blots of wax,
dust balls side by side
are discarded in
an unwanted remains
cemetery.

Hamlet cigar tin overflows
with dispensed coppers
and silver of weighed down
back pockets
and wary days.

Life and love emptied out
and thoughts for today
are withdrawn,
put somewhere else
to forget
and not be brought upon.

Half full (empty)
bottles of wine
are shadows of waiting
for a week to end,
only to be time with you,
arguments and granting.

Unshifted and unmoved
on the dresser side
beside keys askew
and condoms and lube,
painkiller packs laid open,
foil cracked, torn inside.

Dried crusts on a plate
and hair still curly,
just another question
for mum and dad
on why life isn't
what it should be.

Folded clothes wait patiently
on the ironing board, but
we both know that first reached
will be glass and pen
to jot and drown self pities.

And come Monday morning,
when the week has not ended
and feelings aren't rested,
there is nothing to say, only
distaste boiled over,
more meaning less, eyes close
attempted rest.

While He Sleeps

While he sleeps lightly,
eyes roll and flash,
stars that burn through night
like an idea, planted in grey
floods and flashes,
subtle explosions twitch the eye
and hand jerks, body can't contain,
heavy breath takes over
bed bodyweight, shift and sigh
the day done and old now new
not forgotten but placed away.

By home, by the sea.

I was once propped up against a wall,
watching the wind rough up the sea.
Quietly puffing at a cigarette,
contemplating gulls circling downward.

Old man approaches, wind battered drunk;
flatcap askew and squinted glare.
Red faced, a coastal living story:
days of work, whisky and violence.

Sandpaper hands rub together, he
removes his cap, crunches between
hands; when he speaks, voice of a thousand
cigarettes and yells from football stands.

Offers a greeting, "Hello son, fit
is it yer dein oot ere, on
a day like 'is?"  A harsh whisper soft
behind roaring skies, gunkit mettle.

I tell him; "Simply I'm passing time,
watching sky and sea in skermish,
patiently waiting for some
resolution to come between them."

He laughs: a hearty sound full of joy,
unexpected beside grimaced
facade.  He sees the shock I hide.
Try to hide.  He sits against grout and stone.

Together we watch outward for a
time, held in quiet reflection;
angry sea tumoulous, throws his weight
around, spoilt child temper tantrum.

Boats and birds scurry round him, attempt
to calm him, they look to me like
toys and rubber ducks splashed round
merrily Baby Jesus' bathtub.

A timeless moment between us both,
inside a still split second, shared
by between tick and tock, where unmade
thoughts fade and newborn choices replace.

Broken by a thing so soft as the
blink of an eye, frozen intro-
spection to fraught extrovertion,
and the strangers beside one another.

Cigarette passed, hands sheltered flame
and the clouds of our smoke sail up.
Slowly, then faster, caught up by the
rush of the howl, torn inwards and apart.

Two silhouettes in the fading glow,
the watching parent has changed;
Never another word spoken til the
last puff of smoke; simple nods exchanged.

And off he wanders down the path, with
warm glow of the booze and the salt
of the air inside him, and outside
I stand, gaze fixed firmly on the shore.

To clarify...

To avoid some confusion that seems to be happening, Candles Of Death is not a serious poem.  It was written in about five minutes as a bit of fun for me.  Please don't try to deconstruct it as it might be a bit of a waste of time. Or do anyway, out of interest.

Candles Of Death

Something a little light hearted and surreal:


candles are burning a little too quick for my liking;
from the shop for only one pound,
what more can one expect?

apart from, dwindling light and wax only serves to remind
how quickly days, weeks diminish
before years have passed.

but it's too early for one to think of mortality,
but then there are always those gone
so young and so fast.  then gone.

but i am young so my thoughts are always fleeting, aren't they?
always so quick to move on to new things
shiny and fresh, cat with a toy.

corner catches me again, i watch the wick burn further
and my mind trips back and the clock ticks
a chorus to bring forth death.

A Moment Of Your Time

Just give me one moment, of this time,
To ask some questions that trifle my mind,
To what you say and how you do, all of
it contrieved, thoughtless, confused.

If it wouldn't bother you so, could you
Explain to me where it is that you're at?
Coming here with statements pure mad folly,
senseless patter, misunderstood chat.

What's missing in your mind, soul or heart?
Words jaded, muddled and falling apart.
Confusion and questions drive us all,
steering to me seems to be way off mark.

Is it strange to miss part of this world
out of your picture, in blinkered vision?
To throw something out into darkened cold,
A place you avoid, where you subtract addition.

My sense cannot make of who you are,
That cannot feel warmth to one other the same,
Your mechanics so broken and reason
so fallic, recycled words ingrained.

What will it take to make you see, this
life is waste, filled with misguided notion?
Happiness is key, and it won't be found
with your eyes and heart kept firmly apart.

Question living, an answer simple,
All the pieces laid out in solution.
No mystery lies, shrouded round in cloud,
Just let go, to take heed your world

And let enemies that seem like close friends,
Fall away and disperse, so that distraction
can find his purpose, and clarity will follow
to you: see the world, see me, see you.

No need to be on outer quays, let
loose without restraint, and heart a heavy let
go: of bitter days, strange ways of insane.
Find clear concience and faith, change this place,

Escape.

Ode To You

give merriment and give joy,
silky contours that trace the light
delicately curved, ready to hand.

the centerpiece of the social,
the years have waited for this;
liquid enriched, bring walls down.

a figure of cheeried times,
afterwards reside in life renewed
waxed stalk burn, satisfied brand.

a simple significance,
light reflect in corner stood
your own society, vicarious to ours.

I Am #1

I am new in baby blue,
shrink wrap just removed.
Colours twinkle round me.

Zemblem

Wake up from this dream:
stuck down space bar keys
and childhood songs in head,
frantically looping.

Clocks tick by in silence,
filling rooms with purpose
that drives us forward,
answers not yet found.

Turning blades bring power,
igniting bulbs inside,
bringing wisdom to task,
keeping country's form.

Flashing images haunt
the heart's desire,
kept unwrapped, silenced;
never accordingly used.

If glass were to smash,
would it ever be known
by eyes unseeing,
or heart unfeeling?

Fond reverie remains,
by all maintained, and
empty gazes are met
by the purveyors of

zemblanity.

Eleven

Poets scream out for the missing letters
from society that just doesn't care anymore,
the classic circle peg and square hole
of the disaffected youth that no longer cares.

From out the shadow of children comes forth
adult shells dispossessed with no meaning
and at a loss to speak forth the words untold,
playground dreams traded for a world spiteful.

Unwelcomed and unwanted, nothing left here for
the ones pulled through these gates thrown open,
left no choice nor any feeling, to be amongst
angels fallen, minds distracted from what should be.

Resented and torn, time can only steal souls away,
bodies wither away with minds and dreams long ago,
forgotten ideals long gone along with them,
only bones remain and dust, and words tell everything lost.

Empty Verse

here in vain, standing in rain
here in jest, revered at best
here in lies, a truth I cry
here in now, keep me proud.

never am gone, speak strong
never falter, keep it for
never guessing, keep asking
never trusted, concience fled.

i always ask, questions pass
i daren't dream, mind stays clean
i lose myself, heart of stealth
i forth weary, eyes are bleary.

love is here? never i feel
love is false, simply a choice
love is changing, identity misfitting
love is bleeding, take my leaving.

Shutterblinds

Shutterblinds close,
And I can't see you.
Hidden and unheld beneath.

Darkened smoke,
All that captures my eye.
Painted radiators glisten.

Hold your breath,
Let silence penetrate.
Leave behind now, shout and glare.

Pull away now,
Leave me be at peace.
Solitary pleasure now wanted.

Last Moments

Stare out of that window and listen to stupid songs while I try and tell you why things might be alright.  Sat on my bed with the same shitty music in loop down low while the rain spatters off the window, the light casting thin shadows over the wooden floor.  The heat of the day has passed and the cool of night is drawing in, blue skies clouded over and now all there is is grey.

I sit tentatively behind you, wanting to put a hand on your shoulder but i feel you recoil from just the thought passing through my head, as if you can tell what i'm thinking.  But somehow you still don't hear the thoughts that rush through my head whenever you're around.  The quickest of flashes sets off a rush of different memories, like a kid who hangs on the bars of a roundabout that has been spun with all his might before jumping on,
his fingers gripped so hard, but the force is simply too much and he can feel himself slipping away.  Fear rises in his stomach and through his throat, as if he's going to be violently sick, but the thrill of it all is what doesn't stop him. 

But you don't sense any of that.

The pitter patter and the soft beat are all that keep us together.  The distance between us is more than just a few fingerlengths and I can feel you moving away with every second that ticks past.  Your head is turned away but I can still feel your eyes on me, although I know they gaze out the window and that you are actually far away from here.  Thoughts elsewhere, caught up in the non-present, in a different situation and a different mood, a different time, a different place and a different you.  I wonder if you're thinking about me, about us and what we could have been.  if it had been different for us and if we hadn't gotten to this place here, in this room, sitting alone with each other on my bed.  I hope that you do, but I feel like I'm in the presence of death.

The empty longing for something that has passed, the void inside and the colour has drained from everything around, the sound has muted and the world has detatched itself from you.  The things that you once saw are gone, the little things that made you smile and feel connected, ripped away and now things of misery and dark.  Happiness is so bleak now.

I place a hand near your side and already it feels wrong.  So awkward and confused and I feel a pain through my stomach, as if something is pulling me from the inside out.  My head is confused and I feel all the energy coming from out of me as I use it all to will you to see me, here beside you.  To see me as you once did, to just turn round and understand again.  For everything to be as one and for the colour, the sound and the warmth
come back to me.  Only you can do this and as I watch you, I feel it all slipping away.

I let out a quiet sigh.  Not from frustration, as words like that feel like I'm blaming you.  I'm not here to place blame, I'm here to tell you, to make you understand.  Why can't you understand?  Maybe if we just sat here for the rest of time then it wouldn't matter.  Time almost stands still right now, so maybe we could be stuck here forever anyway.  The world wouldn't notice if just the two of us slipped off together to be in our own little world.  Nothing to get caught up in, nothing to distract, only the two of us frozen in time.

I want to put my arm round you, to pull you close and to whisper in your ear.  To take hold of your body and pull it close to me, and to take these covers of mine and hide us from the world.  We can still have our own blue skies hidden under the sheets and we can pretend there are no grey skies now, or there will be ever again.  The sun can always shine for us, if only you let me show you.

I would make you a queen and I would worship at your navel, kiss you tenderly and delicately brush your skin with my tongue and with my fingertips.  Slowly breathe onto you all the soul that I have, yours to keep and treasure and to do with what you will completely.  I hold that picture in my mind, you like a statue that I can keep with me, and i fear now that it is all i will be left with.

The sun is disappearing and the room becomes dimmer.  It feels like the air has become stagnant and bitter, it no longer wants to be here either.  My arm aches but I dare not move it, to break the moment or the silence.  I know the second that I do that everything will be over, like a signal for the end and that will be all we ever have together.  That I'll never see your face again and the few minutes afterwards I will sit and watch the bed where
you sat slowly lose the shape of you and turn back into nothingness.  Just another piece of cloth which hangs onto even more meaninglessness.

But you don't even wait for it.  Something has happened, the air has been unsettled and it awakens you from your dream of elsewhere.  Or maybe you just decided that it was time to rejoin the rest of the world, your world, the world where things are different and I'm no longer part of.  I feel under the numbness inside me a tearing feeling that rips through my whole body, the pain is almost immense already.  I dare not think what it would
be like without this numb feeling.  You move to get up and almost like a jolt my arm reaches out to grab you.  You barely turn your head and mumble something that I can't quite catch before you move away and my arm drops beside where you just were.  I look down and watch your shape slowly start to disappear as you walk away, each step further like a molecule shifting.  I can't bare to lift my head and look.

My mouth is desperate to open and say a thousand things, my whole body stings and is unable, breath sticks in my throat and all I can do is tremble.  I watch the shape and the shadow from outside that is coming for it, to take it away and to join me in solitude.  To taunt me, to hurt me.  To be my only friend and companion, the only thing that is left for me in this world and to take the shreds that are left of me and envelop me whole until there is possibly nothing left to leave me with.

There is a thump of a door closing and I am truly alone.  My hand is stroking where you have been and I slowly count the touches that I have left before it disappears.  I close my eyes.  The music has stopped.  In the distance, I can hear the traffic and somewhere there is a bird singing.  These things would have brought me comfort, but now all they bring is sorrow.  The song is not one of happiness, it is a solitary cry into the evening sky.  I hear
stuttering breath and the sound of material being touched.  And then everything stops.

A quiet click, and then the music starts to play again.

Start Again

Another hot and sweltered white light night.

Ideas stifled like the air that clamours.

Thoughts and the world are silent together.

Dreams overtake and leave solitary confinement.

Eyes and ears hold out intently and wait.

Nothing passes or speaks and patience is only left to wain.

Tiredness doesn't always mean sleep, only leaving.

Remained restless exhaustion, cracked covered serendipity.

Nights used to be filled with unruled thoughts and dreams.

Now an only friend has gone, no understanding is left here.

In a shrinking space, every soul has gone.

Drowning in dreams and the journey towards tomorrow.

Trapped in today as it fades, stuck between the two and exhasparated.

Random images pass and fleet, memories of yesterday.

Childhood and climbing trees, tightly wound roundabouts and playgrounds of the free.

Secret clubhouses and the top of the world, forests of secrets for intrepid souls.

Lazy days under marshmallowed skies, then and now.

Ultimately the prettiest things converge into indecipherable mess.

Never yet learned to untangle, to grab the fly on the fence, nor to understand.

The walking asleep and the unaccepted shrunk downs.

Future dreams that remain in the past.

Every moment unrealised waiting for discovery and elusive enlightenment.

Down in the basement, the gutter and the mud.

Heads are tilted upwards to castles in the sky.

Night Work

these are the building blues,

punk purples and the raving reds

that pulsate the beat, 

through aqueous break smoke glides

the surface, spilling out

the all-dancing, drinking, drug-fuelled

high tops and roll ups.

optics amplify and beats equalize,

sonic cartwheels burn,

a travelling beat train 

of instruments, driving progression,

halcyon haze leads clamour and

glamour through concrete arteries,

sweat and smoke, catcalls and yells.

garage tab pick up, black cab drop

to approaching crecendo and euphoric

rapture, intoxication ceaseless,

something worthy to believe in,

one night only and tonight, 

the visionaries are cued to play,

the children's song drums out.

I : Darkness Falls

Candle crows black to the welcomed downpours
where upward fulmination does hurtle the torrents' reign,
the voices of choirs and their chimera fall through gales
hoisted from pale horses that hurtle, for the bearers of light
to which huddled are vampyres of the pysche shadowed out
by nightsticks made of false light, dwelling in swollen mud swathing.

Negative

I just discovered this whilst flicking through an old blog, it's a more recent piece (about two years old) and therefore probably a bit better than the stuff I was writing on there before.

Golden filament entwines
over buried crucibles
always unpenetrated.
Unmarred Spode
blots out marked reflection
incessantly malignant.
Deceptive gleams dim reason and
the empty cup distracts
with its fallacious utterances.
The sublime flash encloses
a nonsensical facade
all jubilant rememberance aborted.

Polaroid #1

do you remember

the fleeting cries

and the taste

of burning candles

burrowing through

the senses and

the pills in your hand

like jelly beans

lying on top of

a sleeping city laughing

and the rats

scurrying below?

The Ballroom Dance

Smiles that are extended from across of this here

Are what leave tightening air between the two

Of you.  Smiles left wondering what to think when

they look to you and find nothing but love that is spent.

Effected outsiders are what leave the insides destroyed

The further you pull away and behind the laughter

Of the boys and the girls who spend the whole day annoyed

Inside their heads, they hold the leftovers of what they are.

Encoldened touches and dying intentions of anything asked like

Beats that are dropping out of rhythm and are just noises now

As footsteps carry you away across the ballroom floor

Crowds are what swallow them whole, nothing to anyone, anymore and somehow.

Without the hope that was once around what is there left to expect?

To live without the necessary quintessentials and absolutes,

The selfish nature of those from which our nature vicarious

Sparks have all but left us starved and babbling, incapable and uncomprehending.

Passing Time

Look inside
Those cracked glass frames,
Full of water stained meaning
Through moonful glare, playful words.

Fast asleep,
The others play away in carnivals,
Run for miles amongst elongated blades
With hiding messages toy, still born fancy.

Placed palms
Grasp for more uncertainty,
Numbers slide through blackened sand.
Exchanges thrown, playtime's over, and time for home.

Insipid idylls
Stained alongside yesterday's photos,
That only 'retro' cameras can make
Nostalga's young dreamers have fallen away from this.

What's Left Behind

dirty bowls 

strewn on

letters unopened, insides untold

with crumbs on matresses

and sheets 

discarded

artifacts left untouched

glisten on sheets

black where celestial

bodies would above 

travel

faint ceilings with whisper,

heed rasping angels

breezing song call past

exposed limbs, blood 

colden

shadows of apparitions, 

an overexposed negative,

the photonic residue strains

an echo that 

penetrates

wind chimes playful and

cloudbroken, sun shimmers

hope in between eyes closed that

are missing the warm breath beside.

Mythonies

Waves of sound strung up, wrestled and tangled
Tendrils rising out, distressed and grasping
Oncoming traffic driving forward, colliding
High top balloons crashing, ripping through air to the ground.

Light fluctuating, sharp and distilled
Shoot through dialated passages, never unseen
Caught and trapped travelling messages
Streaming golden roads outward.

Clench palms with fists of fury
Bound with coloured string, suspended stacks
Inside negative whites that take up room,
this space is not empty, cluttered only.

Headshaped blurs, over sensed realities
filling to the brim with misunderstood focus,
Noises of crescending drums and crashing symbols'
Senseless ramble, glass to the wall and the fly uncaptured.

Red check that block on black
Pukka Pads on which scattered ideas are spent,
like woken from dreams of love and loss, of anger and loathing,
and of empty wanks left lost behind.

Hello Reader,

For those of you having a look for the first time, welcome to my blog.

Just a bit to explain myself (for those of you familiar with my blog, feel free to skip this post).

I am a writer based in London and this is a platform in which to display some of my works.  I would love your feedback, whether you are just passing or a regular viewer.  You can do this here or via my Facebook page the link for which is on the right hand of this page.

I would also be interested in hearing from you if you are also a writer or someone based in the creative industries.  I would love to get involved with projects with other like minded people, such as film makers or those based in independent theatre.

My writing is quite diverse although the pieces on here are based in prose and mainly poetry at the moment. However if you are interested in screenplay and such like please get in touch.

I hope you enjoy what you read, but if you don't (or if you do) please feel free to pass on some constructive criticism.  Also bare in mind that this blog does not consist of my complete range of works, so again if you are interested in seeing more or anything else, get in touch.

Many thanks,
Chris.

Cellos and Choir - June 2010

the symphonies of dreams
that i still long after,
while i hear your shouts and screams
and beg for the life i long for.

scarlet wounds and the over thought,
leave me with broken chairs
in a room long lost and the spirits
that roam, discarded souls bared.

ask me a question and you
can only live for a dream.
ask me for solutions and i
will only ignore your needs.

the tune that you swallow
and the apple that you grab,
leave pictures in frames
that leave lines empty and sad.

ask me not what i can do,
for only cliches can follow.
so ask me nothing,
and sirens blare in fellow.

so on and so forth

For LT

wheels of magic, missing full stops
heart fills to bleed, eyes closed
watch the myths that pass us by

so happy, so sad
jokers and clowns
with jaded smiles

sleepful happiness and the dream that wakes
leaves a sense of illusion not imitated
minds clearing with mouths engaging

Musak Mosaic

Nonsense in the Dark,

Go hard, go home

Starry Eyed Boy in Love

In a Digital Age.

Haven’t You Heard

What Happens Next?

You’ve Got The Love,

The Perfect Sound.

The Reeling Animal,

Ready for the Floor.

My Delerium,

A Thin Disguise.

Come Back Home,

My People.

Heart Failure Alone,

Cross Beam Fantasies.

And Tonight My Heart Dances

Rugs lie cold,

White room stream.

Clock stop, picture frame

Still life, stillest heart.

Dance round,

Back rolled eyes.

Hide your shame,

Tonight’s disco light dream.

Reboot - 2009 reworkings

When We Come

Luscious intrepidation of bitten souls; syllables blare.

Heavy heads of confused misunderstanding,

Catching feathers with rustled hearts.

Enliven yourself, a withdrawn smile

and the orange question of exit liberties

like the screaming countries of war.

Nightly penicillin, Absolut fucks and rehab deposits,

the inside job of vampire tickets

and arresting branded threesomes of the pub porn band.

A baby jacket bell jar and their heavy instruments,

the cocktail sharks that swarm goldened cages,

baiting blood which weeps.

Little despair brings the biggest joy, from the vantage of the disowned.

Where driven drumbeats push pauper kings and queens

through streets of jade-mongered thought cowards.

The settling dust coats conduits, a view of light encapsulated thorns

Like the constant faded reminiscence

Of gleams that catch the concave.

Seconds fleet eternal as black holes begin to absorb,

the cascading jagged fingers witter

Precious ideals, now trinkets violated

Bright lights always eventually dim

like lost vessels in the night

Devoid of any

inspiration,

everything

just

Not Level

You're a Liverpool Green Noodle Box
Just a white suit and chocolate wrappers
On Lovells' Snow Hill.

Spired bricks make cover
Non-stop recycled make off
An apple corporate.

Energy's not in service anymore
Where lazy piano keys play
And red bar circles follow.

Two weeks of assumption 
And a coffee cup walking by,
punching above their weight.

Tartan legs circle and
white labels blow, all nods
and mumbles inconsequential.

Questions and/or statements,
all they say is "...Hello..."
Steam clouds give reply.

The Dead Set

The Dead Set,
Honey lightning rod barricades him in,
Look up, says he
Numero faccio contare inverso,
The beasts of the taiga hiss and buzz
Heaven's spots of light are women
in the Holocaust.
But there are no Anne Franks here.
Thirsty toil takes tritiatation
Wake up Donnie, Go to sleep John
'Holdmust i hendur allur heimurinn oskyr' says he.
A smoked menthol swallow and
fly away, Morph to '92
where Power Rangers play
on top tiaga tribesmen roamed
Spots now light heavy watching
One day he will touch. Now he says
"I'd lose myself in clarity
and find myself in chaos"
Look down, says he
The still golden castle holding
him out in open arms

Don’t Leave Coco,

All the yellowed tickets and fairytales

Of the boys and girls of this Bricken’d Lane.

The Cushion Reindeer art, the vintage Polaroids strewn.

Samba Mexicana strained with Mother’s,

Mix matched Converse that wash by,

The staler smell of wet cancer sticks

Wear it down.

Taking broken bangles

And playing in the rain.

(Mis)Educated spirits,

There’s a lot of that going around.

Like plastic boats lining rivers,

Streaming down like corporate art,

Sunshine fruit and morning’s mud and

Paper tickets fly away.

Don’t Leave Coco,

Heavy lovemaker and wearied tendon,

Solar plexus and soul represses.

Be evermore an delusion intoxicated.

Update - March 2010 - Stuff I'm Listening To...

Ellie Goulding -

The album is Lights, and I was awaiting this little album a few days after mentioning her last month.  It arrived, I got it, and I've been listening to it ever since.  The album is fantastic, made up of a lot of tracks I already knew, and once getting past the reworked versions I just couldn't stop listening to this album, no matter how hard I tried.  Just listening to one track is impossible, it simply leads on to another until the whole album is finished.  Tracks of note - Guns and Horses, This Love (Will Be Your Downfall), Salt Skin and Every Time You Go.  This album has been slightly slated as being disappointing, and while I agree there has been some resting on laurels with the record company, this is only a first album and there is plenty of time to progress.  So long as she does, but I have no feeling that she won't, having followed her progress from early doors.  Catchy, poppy tracks that blend folk and electro in an interesting way - it's how good pop should be.

Two Door Cinema Club -

A great band that caught my attention a few months ago.  The album is Tourist History.  And whilst my computer is fighting with me about this one (it won't play some of the tracks when it doesn't feel like it), this album is a belter.  A great blend of melodies, now spiced up with the addition of a drummer to accompany the three (yes, count them, three) vocalists giving the music a bigger driving force.  Tracks to watch - Come Back Home, Something Good Can Work, Undercover Martyn, You're Not Stubborn.

Laura Marling -

The uber talented songstress returns with her sophomore album, I Talk Because I Can.  I was a bit sceptical about the return with the yuletide release of Goodbye England (Covered In Snow), but the track soon caught me singing along and finding myself caught inside another one of Marling's beautifully written and wise beyond her years songs.  Whilst Ellie Goulding might be accused of still possessing immature lyrics, Marling simply oozes the aged soul that can only come from growing up on the greats like Dylan and Neil Young.  And this album shows a more grown up edge, if that is possible.  Live performances now feature less the non-interactive, silent between songs girl who once took the stage mesmorising audiences to the confident and wonderful woman who holds court, all the while mesmorising new audiences, and old once again.

Alphabeat -

The album is The Spell, and despite the premise I find this album really disappointing.  I've never been the biggest Alphabeat fan, bar a couple of stonkingly catchy tracks and this album held much hope with me but once again they have fallen into classic terroritory with me.  Whilst some tracks are good enough, the others simply fall into Euro-pop drivel, only barely managing to encapsualate the sound of the early 90s they are trying to reminicise.  Tracks worth hearing are - Heart Failure, The Beat Is and The Right Thing.  Apart from that, this album has fallen into the pile of dusty one listeners never likely to be picked up again.

The Big Pink -

This album reminds me of old whilst managing to sound new.  Sounds weird but on listening, for anyone in their twenties or above it brings back memories of the sounds that were roaming around in the early 90s just as rave was fading away somewhat, or that was simply being ignored by those who preferred their music with a guitar and not just bass and synth or any other electronic device that came to hand.  The thing whilst maintaining this raw sound, there is a bit of a touch of that scene inscribed into the music as well, the influence of growing up in these days has certainly had an effect on the band.  'Dominos' was what made this band known to the wider public, but check out 'Love in Vain' and 'A Brief History of Love'.

More soon...

A little note for you...

Hello there, dear reader.

If you come across this blog and decide you like what you see, please feel free to hit the lovely 'Follow' button on the page.  It just means that the likeliness of more people like yourself coming across the blog and more acknowledgement of my work.  This isn't just a hobby for me, and I would really like to make a livelihood out of this, so by simply hitting that button, you are doing me a big favour.  If you're on Facebook, you might like to become a Fan as well.  It just means I get a bit of a higher profile and more people get to read my work.

If you do like my stuff, then feel free to leave a comment.  If you don't, then feel free as well.  So long as its constructive, I'll take it on board.

Now I've pimped myself out, enjoy the rest of your day!

Much Love!

March 2010 - Bound

For JM.

The heat that approaches is frightening to me.

The auburns and the screaming tangerine swim upwards, snapping wildly, casting darkened lines across my face.  I imagine all but the gleam of my eye is visible, a solitary twinkle among the massing cover of light lacking.  It crawls like a lover into the form and curves of a body lying in wait, linking pieces forming like they should never have been apart.

An unruly imagination could liken the outlines and shapes to the monsters that creep around, waiting for the eyes of children to slowly fall shut, dreams of giant robots and castles in the sky roaming over rolling eyes.  I remember when I used to dream.

Of objects and moulds I watched through square voids that surround me, revealing gold streaked views of ever sprawling worlds, and at other times, silvered oceans that unfurled continuously.  A spy hole that swirled, never stationary, fidgeting without consistent form or thought, a shapeless mirage.

Without my coup, I could be free of these things, and be what I dream of.  To touch, to roam, to play, to love and to hate, to scream, to laugh and to cry and to die a little inside.  A pure wind unstoppable.

But now like tribes angered with vengeful hunger, I am trapped here with the peril that pushes forward, reaching out to me like the tongue of a lizard.  The ones that I have seen on the little box of light sitting darkly in the corner, that suddenly will burst into life, showing massive beasts that flow surprisingly graceful through worlds of blue and gray explosions through which arms throw themselves into the air, chaos surrounding.  And a thousand other things that flash - a crashing slideshow pausing for a moment to then be replaced by something newer, something brighter, and something better hungry and willing to take the centre stage.

The box lies dormant now, almost siding with the figures that wreak havoc in the black.  Allies to the fold.  I wish my legs would take it upon themselves to just run like the rest of me tell them to.  The heat draws itself closer and I feel like I’m beginning to melt, each part of me transforming steadily into sludge as I sink downwards into myself.  I’m paralyzed and isolated; all I can do is watch and melt away.  Why did I have to be here?  Stuck, and unable to save myself. 

If only my little legs could carry me far, far away from me here like Dorothy.  I wish that I could see the fields, the sea and the sky.  I try to close my eyes but my gaze is fixed.  I think inside myself, picturing it all and trying to block out around me.  The monsters are laughing at me now, I can almost hear them above the quiet roar that is building, spurred on by random explosions that spark suddenly and disappear even quicker like an afterthought of regret.  It was never a good idea to do this, they could think.  And then they could all change their mind, the tribe turning backwards and leave me be.

Blazes of kaleidoscopic colour run around my head, light and shadow is ambushing me and I don’t know what to do.  If I could cry, I think I would.  But all I can do is be still, the outside hiding what really is happening.  A torrent of pictures in my head, my own personal box of light strobing faster, edging closer like the mass around me, towering up and about to engulf.  And I can’t even scream aloud, every fibre of my being desperate for it.  Time feels like it’s at a brink, about to stand still.  So close, now it’s all over.

It.  Just.  Stops.

And go.

Like the click of a stopwatch, everything flows over me – the bright gold irking at the shadows, it has come fighting from my very soul.  They stumble back and I feel a rise of emotions so hard and unrepentant I can’t begin to start contemplating.  Black swirls and dim flutters of golden glitter dance then crash and fall, the roar replaced by a silent stillness like all that I show and the melody pleases my ears.  In the distance I hear crowing back and forth, a call in song and I watch as a sheet ripples off runways of green, brand new.

Inside I sigh.  I see it all through the holes in front of me and now more than ever I want to run, to skip, to jump, to dance over it all.  Why can’t I move?

I stare with a longing and will myself, waiting for the moment that I spring into life, racing forwards into a sea of light, of merging and separating again colours, to edges of worlds so I can see over the precipice, the next one revealing itself as the page of the scrapbook is turned.  I glimmer like the lights that fly above me, overseeing the changing of the tides, hiding from one before revealing themselves again in another.  I wait patiently, successfully managing to contain the excitement that whirls inside me like a roundabout that is out of control, gripping so tight, at any second about to fly off into another world that is new and untold.

And I count - one...  two... three.

Then I run.

Rust - March 2010

Disengaged ensembles fall, torn like discarded words of a book long forgotten.

Plane tickertape fall, flakes frozen flutter, bind themselves misted starry blues.

Playgrounds circle, handlebars dance, only retold fable bring back dirty glances, broken frames.

Images travel fast in chilli winter gardens, where heat and cold intertwine

Inside long vacant rooms and guises, missing points and schemes blaze.

Through hair, through head unforget, faithful story unrest, a blurred vision’s discovery.

Tree branches stalk affliction, shadowed groans then sledgehammer

Home the pitted breath and hardened stare; words are climbing mirrored walls.

Disaffected days are all pushing inwards, conferring with bad rhyme and melody uncertain.

Barbed sparks warp and smores insignificant just grope the whitewashed walls,

The rough house feeling; colourblind centrefold and plastic letters

All that remains is the stealth disappearing, an empty stomach, rotten apple cores.

Did you know,,,?

There's currently two works stuck to my wall staring me in the face and I'm not sure what to do about them.

I might just stick them together and see what happens.

One Thousand And One Ways

Something short - Feb 2010

Blue bulb with fur scarlet.

Digits up Celeste, five fold.

Goblin’s A to Z shuffled into the skins of moles.

Whilst correct, Mark pumps propped.

Distortion landed on cotton tones.

Pound sticks pronounce, Jack submerged.

Clicks and ring, roll around, tap.

Orange aloft with Bleu.

Loaded beams, quivering tanks.

Stringent echo strain off left behind.

Thanks to Peter, Paul and Percy.

Update - Feb 2010 - Stuff That I'm Listening To

Does anyone know how the title auto finished for me?

Anyways, finally having an online connection means I'm getting back up to date with things.  I'm also in a new space which means I can start getting things for my bedroom setup (sweet).  But a big space to chill in is what's really getting me going at the moment.

So, in the tradition of blogs that once were - Stuff That I'm Listening To.

Miike Snow - 

Self-titled album and remixes, including Thom Yorke and Vs Vampire Weekend.  Tracks of note have to be Silvia and Animal.  This is just glorious and has been on my radar for a while, but I'm disgusted as to only be getting on that now.  Mesmerising.

Temper Trap - 

Sweet Disposition is just a beautiful song.  A wonderfully uplifting start that builds into a real mover.  Also, Fader (check out Pivot remix).  The album is Conditions.  A real warm and uplifting collection that really makes you think these guys care and think about what they do rather than dribble out what they think are expected.

Animal Collective - 

a re-occurrence really, and something you have to be in the right mood and setting for, but when you are... uh.  Just perfect.  (Merriweather Post Pavillion, which has the trippiest and best album cover of the last who knows how many years.  That isn't it there, but instead a lovely .gif to go 'ooh' at.)

Owl City - 

A little saccharine after the 15th track, but the ethereal feel and the awesome imagery of an insomniac is something I can really connect with.  Being awake and watching the world at 4am is something that you can only really understand if you're a real night owl or insomniac and it's a wonderful thing to have an album you can really connect with, maybe not something everyone can claim with this one.  Fireflies, and the album of the same name.

Ellie Goulding - 

I've mentioned her a long time ago, after hearing a collobartion with Frankmusik.  A little on the commercial and now she has a big record company behind her, a little overproduced, this still sounds great.  Magical in ways and a really dreamy and ethereal sense in the songs.  What pop should be really.  Hoping the album lives up.  (Under The Sheets, Starry Eyed).

The XX - 

The FATM remix is pure bliss for six and half minutes.  If you visit Rough Trade East you can get a special edition copy of the self titled album which features a bonus CD with some lovely exclusive tracks.  (And yes, I know this is another old one but still-)

So there we go.  Brick Lane on Sunday.

Blu Tak Ideas - 15th February 2010

In the morning, played

Sweet ether remains.

Earthy notes, bitter flow.

Vacant joy, position

Betrayed

Fire flies, outward

Vision isn’t seeing.

Striking disposition

Jarred, bed sitten

Clearing ice cold

Hands pushed backward,

Scarlet Miss Charlotte

sits on the hay.

Smiles and knives,

circling boxes

that never need and leave

ideas up high, starry eyed.

Shelf watched hero,

Footsteps treaded skyward.

Never quite healing

Exhale dealt, return to sender.

Un petite message

I don't use this blog for personal mentions usually but I lost contact with someone unintentionally in the last couple of months and have no way of contacting them through some unfortunate events.

In a hope that they see this, know that my absence is not deliberate and I would like to see you again should the opportunity present itself.

Update - Feb 2010

So it's been a while since my last post which is down to a number of things, primarily having no internet where I now live being the main one.

I've been concentrating on a piece of work made up of shorts, poetry and photography of the local area that I live in, more of which will be to come.

I'm also looking at music production, so I'll be making my first steps in that in the next few months.

Just thought that I'd give a quick post whilst I have the chance and to make it clear that the blog hasn't been abandoned.

I've posted a piece below that I wrote last month, which forms part of the work mentioned above.  It's not a finished article but gives an idea of the kind of stuff that will be featured, although some of the stuff may be a little less literal, or obvious, as this piece.

Don't Leave Coco - December 2009

Don’t Leave Coco

All the fairytales and post it notes

Of the Brick Lane boys and girls

The Cushion Reindeer art

And the vintage Polaroids.

Samba Mexican beats strained with gin

Mix and match accents that go by

The stale smell of wet cigarettes

Wear it down.

Taking off broken bangles

And playing in the rain

(Mis)Educated spirits

There’s a lot of that going around.

Like plastic boats that line rivers

Streaming down like corporate art

Sunshine fruit and morning mud

Paper tickets fly away.

Don’t Leave Coco

Downtrodden and disbelieving

Heavy hearts and weary muscles

Solar plexus, soul represses