blue_eyed_monster_corp

So I sez to him I sez, that’s his fucking problem that is, not mine, his fucking problem, well it is ain’t it? I’m right ain’t I?

So I sez to him, I sez, ey listen up mate that’s your fucking problem that is and he sez to me he sez that’s your fucking problem, my fucking problem he sez, my fucking problem?

Yeh your fucking problem he sez, so I sez, listen here mate watch your words, I sez to him I sez, cause he was running his gums weren’t he? and he sez to me he sez, watch my words?
watch my fucking words? nah mate YOU watch your fucking words!

I mean can you fucking believe it, watch my fucking words he sez?

So I sez to him, I sez, tread carefully son, I sez, well he didn’t like that did he, nah he fucking didn’t, and he opens his mouth and he sez to me…

or rather is to be written by 20 year olds and read by 37 year olds.

two poems on 3AM Magazine from way back then.

The Monarchs’ Bones.

We who’ve stared at the sun
And mobbed our way through the angry Whitehall streets
We who hold shopping lists close to our hearts
And rub holes in our clothes in nervous anticipation
We who wait in static
We are a stammer
At the edge of a river of rushing steel

She first noticed it as he moved on top of her. A sort of smudge on his right pectoral muscle. Later when he was dozing, and she lay basking in blue light trying to finish her beer without having to sit up, she had a chance to examine it. Upon closer inspection it wasn’t a smudge. Whatever it was it was more like a faded image beneath the skin, wriggling its way to the surface.

In 2016 Diat played at Roskilde, contractually they needed to play for an hour or they wouldn’t get paid, but they didn’t have enough songs, so at one point I just said this for a while.

Do you ever feel like your standing at the edge of something, queasy from the height, some kind of whirling cosmic scab or a a slow motion car crash of crumbling plaster and advancing wrinkles? I often find myself aroused while queuing with my shopping, fruit and veg and cleaning products falling from my arms as I clumsily reach for them, fingers wrapping around their contours like a lover you can never really get a grip on.