We never beat the high school Hallowe’en harlequins,
all of us daubed for the masquerade massacre,
and the same question over, over again
“Who are you supposed to be?”

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Whilst Half Asleep

With each footstep
an age may pass
before these eyes
composed of glass.

These eyes of glass
bestowed on me
to frame thy fucked
up symmetry.

This symmetry
is nonetheless
a root of this

of yet it seems
of how to translate
words from dreams.

And with each word
a thousand years
before I
reconcile these fears.

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Chris McLaren – In Circles (feat. Jack Dickens)

A bit of spoken word from me at the start of my good friend Chris McLaren’s track. The composition is pretty sick, and I can only thank him for asking me to contribute to his work.



@MC_Dawg948 and @DickensianJack for Chris and myself on Twitter. Also, look up ‘Christopher McLaren’ on YouTube, a load of tunes from my man worth listening to.

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It Was Something Like Clarity

I saw you,
haunted and smiling.

I saw you,
all my voices
the numbers
the questions
the screaming
the insecurities
the obsessions
the panic
the pointlessness
the self-pity
the abyss

they all just.



Everything made sense,
for a moment

And I was stupid enough
to think you’d stay.

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Get Home Safe / When They Sleep

I told Homeless Aaron I’d give him a cigarette if I had any papers, and that I’d run out myself. He pulled two packs of Bull Brand from his pocket and gave me the rest of his. I told him I couldn’t accept it, so he forced them into my pocket. I gave him some tobacco (he didn’t like filter) and told him I still felt bad about it. He said it was OK because he could tell I was a genuine guy, that he’d seen me before, doing the same gesture for all the homeless guys all over town. I asked about the cuts on his face, he told me the junkie who sleeps outside Tesco beat him up for thirty pence. He said he was starving though, so I told him I’d bring food next time, that I’d probably see him after work the next day. He shook my hand, which morphed into a brief hug. He kissed my cheek and told me it was nice to know there were still good people about. I told him again that I’d bring food next time, and left. He told me to have a good night and get home safe.

I saw Homeless Pete a few seconds later. I’d seen him a few hours beforehand, given him a cigarette. This time, I told him that he was in luck, and that I’d run out of papers, but that Aaron had given me some. I began to roll him a cigarette, but he put his hand on my arm and stopped me. He reached into a pack and gave me two of his own cigarettes. I said I couldn’t take it from him. He insisted though, told me he saw me three/four times a week, and that I always gave him cigarettes, and that I was stoned once and gave him two slices of pizza. He said he hated having to ask for money, so he didn’t. He was right, he always just told people to have a nice night as they passed him. I’d seen them, most people ignored him. It didn’t seem fair. I shook his hand, told him I’d see him the next day, and that when my loan came through, I’d buy him a whole pack to himself. He told me to have a good night and get home safe.

I walked home to the sound of flat-battery-iPod silence and the Saturday night customers of Huddersfield. Some were in McDonald’s, some were kissing, or some throwing up on the pavement. I tried to question what had just happened with Aaron and Pete, why, and what it meant – if it meant anything at all. I couldn’t help but think that what they’d said about me was wrong.

I got home, lit a spliff, and fell asleep watching an episode of Red Dwarf I’d pirated.

That night I dreamt of beating my friends up.

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Zebras in Huddersfield


studying them race from
one crack in the ceiling
to the next. They look
like they’ve been
told what to do
next, “that’s
where you
want to
be, this
is how
to get




h   o   w     s  i  m  p  l  e
it must be for all of them.

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In Circles

Never ask me to write you love letters,
Never ask me to pose for photographs,
I’ve nothing to give so simply don’t ask.

I’m a crack in the window,
A stain on the floor,
Something old and worthless you’ve no use for.

I’ll drain the life from a cut in your lips
Because I’ve nothing here but to exist.
I won’t flourish into a metaphor
for those born in my year,
I will not see all
as all will not see me,
My world will be engraved
on a bullet ricocheting
through holes in my memory,
all too much to make sense of.
I will not remember the pleasantries,
only the addictions.
I will not obsess about
the world changing,
I will remember you in
fictional depictions.

I will mean no offense
when I take up defense
of myself as the only truth,
And I will not share this
damage limitation with you.


This is something written for my friend Chris McLaren’s electronic music piece (look him up on YouTube, he’s a fucking awesome musician). The recorded version of this will probably be out and about in a month or so.

Granted, this is an amalgamation and a mess-about-with of two previous pieces. I’m lazy, shoot me.


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