Lemme

georgia train

Buddy told me about The Information Man,
told me there were days you wanted to die,
that all 92,775 miles of a harmonica perfectly
tuned to Georgia might just show you rest
and take you 
to a convenience store
with a winning lottery ticket.

And if I bomb and
colours bleed into one,
then lemme see a black fucking heart,
lemme get lost at sea,
lemme drown in what I think I
can or cannot see in God
and lemme know exactly what he thinks of me.

If scars down my back are
the best I can give,
lemme rub in the salt,
lemme hold together my skin
by laughing in stitches
made from black shirts
still left unwashed.

That’s what Buddy told me.
Now Marshall tells me that he’s
stronger than he was,
and I’m inclined to agree;
roses watered with alcohol,
tempered by pills and
the doctor’s moderation.

Cheers, doc. Really.
I ain’t rebellious
but I’ve got a taste for destruction,
non-diet everything,
a propensity to take a life
by jumping from the last sofa
I passed out on.

And if in two-hundred-and-fifty-one
pages of nonsense
I can only write ecstatic,
so be it.
This is the other hand.
This is Wolverhampton’s best pre-owned
damaged goods.
This is the offer,
free to a good home.

 

//////

 

Image: http://cdn.c.photoshelter.com/img-get2/I0000au_zpOw5UWw/fit=1000×750/Eastbound-BNSF-Freight-Train-at-Sunset.jpg

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Them Little Brown Bottles

The Voice will try to warn us
by running rings around our heads,
speak in lowly chorus.
But then, my friends,
we’ll just pretend
that ghosts of what
we did and said
might not come back to haunt us.

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My Take: The Germanwings Air Crash

andreas

Usually when I see a link to a news story and some long Facebook status of someone posting their opinion on it, I usually just think something along the lines of ‘self-serving dickhead’. I know this fits the same category, but this story has got me particularly riled.

Some of the bile that people spouted following this incident has simply been disgusting. The top-rated comments on the story of the authorities possibly discovering his body are along the lines of: “Leave them there for the animal scavengers to have. Society doesn’t want him back.” and “Leave him there, where he want to be. His soul be in hell there. Crazy maniac.”

In no way am I downplaying this. This is a tragedy: 150 people died.

But Andreas Lubitz was a mentally unwell man. This incident was not an act of terrorism, it was not politically or religiously motivated. There are no ‘good guys’ and ‘bad guys’ to this story.

Lubitz reportedly possessed torn up and/or hidden sick notes from his therapist to conceal his illness from his employers. I can’t help but wonder why he felt the need to do this, but then I wonder quite how many of us are willing to discuss openly and honestly the topic of mental health – and why the fuck not?

Again, I am NOT downplaying this. This was a tragedy, maybe a preventable one though.

150 people died, not 149 plus 1.

///

Image from: http://i3.mirror.co.uk/incoming/article5415296.ece/ALTERNATES/s615/LubitzPlaneMain.jpg

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Regenerate

Laugh.
And keep laughing
as

                  you’re

walking

through                          the

                            minefield

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In Circles [Video-Clip-thing]

Alright, this is about six months old, but Angus persuaded me to record a video for it. Not too sure how it sounds compared to reading it. Still, was fun finding out.

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Burn Marks

The burning paper leaves
a scent of disappointment
in the air.

It permeates, cuts,
right to the bone.
It stings, it feels like
a tattoo digging into the skin,
digging deeper deeper deeper.

You can taste it,
drag it from the air.
It tastes like bottles
and pizza boxes
from three weeks ago,
it feels like everyone who
ever came into this room,
like everyone who’s ever smoldered
has tapped a bit of themselves
on the floor.

And here they are,
all of them.
The stains don’t go away.

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‘Ere, Neave?

I can’t promise to dance but
I can show you my beer mat
and tobacco pouch collection,
pinned up chronologically
next to the the Playboy Bunny
and ganja leaf baggies;
each one that litters the floor
the same as the ones on the wall before.

I can’t promise you a man
who even knows the theory
of dancing, and only vaguely knows
how to dress himself;
the same jeans for three weeks running,
“fucking horrible” t-shirts,
The same hideous shirts over them,
the same occasional, “Shit, you smell nice”
and someone who takes
far too much pride in his cold-cosy hovel.
Hey, I’m not sure I can even
promise clean underwear.

I can recall everything I’m not
and can’t and shan’t and won’t.
I can do that. I’m pretty good at that.

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