under the guitar chord strains of Green Day’s ‘Good-Riddance’

a whole childhood lining the thin threads of dusty band shirts

that lay to rest in attics stashed with stuffed animals

you pretended could all talk with the same voice (yours)

and I will remember the way you built up toddler temper-tantrums

to towering tornadoes that shook the most creative K’Nex creations

I’d ever seen, as they watched you bleed

wishing they could snap themselves to colourful splinters for you

see these lungs can still scream that they love you

these heartstrings will still soar upward toward yours

from the bottom-basement of my skeleton

dip dovetailed with my pride tribal drum-beating

against the bloodlines of your teenage palms

as I wish them well, with my own clasped in prayer

but my throat will remain dry,

frozen outside your bedroom door at 1am

fumbling in ragged grey pyjama’s on the landing,

I am the humbled, crumbling old man

wanting to fold you into the walls

where you have delicately drawn out your dreams

hold you up from sadness that could

thinking that if I snuck inside to scrawl

all of my mistakes on pretty post-its

placed them bare upon your patterned pillows

you would awake at sunrise, peel them from your boyish cheeks

and write back: ‘youth is about getting lost, kid’

then you’d promise you won’t let go,

the way those moments in music

hurt like they have fully fucked us to the floorboards

lip-kissed our memories with quiet choirs of fleeting friendships

swirling like kites reeled closer and caught in motion

leaving our spun hearts sprawled across the fingerprints

of too many album discs

though we both know there’s no such thing

as too many album discs

and they are scratched with every city’s arms

that hold us as we sleep

pressing pieces of ourselves to endless sofa bed creases

so as I watch those wobbling eyes bravely waltzing

beneath a sky traced with your big headphones

blazing for the world

I’ll need you to always hear 38 Palmerston Street

whatever dreams may sing beneath your skin

and there she will come, the worn, withering voice of mum

swearing at you for not using the butter knife right

still her words will touch you deeper than anything art can offer

she is a boiling kettle and Tesco shopping bagged angel

purging booze pulsing-parties and first-class flight window seats

fuck first-class flight window seats

because the best part is:

you could turn 35 headcaved to an all-day all-night rave

tip-toe dancing backwards across glistening Icelandic glacial rivers

or swallowing the dune-drenched dustclouds

of Afghanistani Middle-Eastern barren desert

but there are more ordinary roots

that will pluck at that worldly wingspan

as you touch base with stitched family feathers

blossoming from beans on toast in the measliest living room

HP sauce on demand, Fraiser reruns crackling from the telly

grandma’s snug stories soundtracking dad’s hopeless one-liner grins

china mugs chinking with the shrill gossip of boisterous aunties

here may seem like nothing

but little brother if I may ever speak one truth for you

I will pledge that here in this scene, breathes our everything

I picture you slammed, knee-sprawled,

upon a Jobcentre Plus carpet

crawling for familiar certainty of grey office desk

body-buried beneath crumpled vacancy forms

skin peppered with paper-cuts

stationary digging bone deep

draining black and blue stains to white spinal cord coils

let’s flashback to what’s actually happening:

It’s 12.45pm: I’m taking your stern handshake

suddenly seeing myself a fragile lad, the flickering statistic

spreading my future fully across your lap – try me?

You blink coldly, icily clock my wear,

figure I couldn’t give a toss

as rivers of apathy flow awkwardly

from behind clinical frames of business glasses

I slouch smaller on a swing chair

knuckles sweating ripped denim-jacket pockets

injustice trickling way too fast inside my headspace

drifting to daydream:

you’re a set-to-kill robot

metallic fingers dangerously tapping

keyboard keys like clicking triggers

a rusting juggernaut with clinical brown slacks

slickly parted brill-creamed hair

my capability? the vast city your computer chip

is programmed to shut down

wipe clean off the map, self-esteem massacred

by cluster-bombs of arrogance

remnants of any skeletal potential traced away

with searing laser precision

so I start imagining morphing to a magnificent Komodo dragon

glowing skin speckled-red

snorting nostrils enflamed by your assumptions

webbed wings thrashing

because I swear you know nothing more

than my National Insurance Number

stricken by such sympathy to a skinned head

wracked in grief, over these torn tracksuit-bottoms

my shaking fingers pausing at the tip of your Parker ball point

believing they’d be better scratching out your hardened soul

for I could fill five thousand of these job steps

etch childlike sketches by each vacancy I tried applying

write thick lyrical rhythms of my secret skills

in silent invisible ink

slapping silly smiley faces boldly upon the page corners

paint rich gold, every grey and white bland box

but you? Would sit blindly, imagine me

slumming in drugden drouts

slamming half-finished chicken kebabs

against speeding car windscreens

I want you to feel this passion sweat-staining

the fabric of my Notts County away strip

I want you to know my tattooed fists won’t touch you

only tremble against first-forming dawn clouds

that I will clasp the keys to my pokey-proud flat

that I will cradle the kisses my girlfriend

places upon downcast eyelids

as scowling jobsites wound my pupils

that I will comfort my heart as I freeflow verse

all of our pin-prick dreams

whisper-spitting each word like

they could be swallowed whole by God

I want you to see me..

I just want you to see me

my father has eyes only for the waters,
woolly hat, greying coat,
fumbling with fishing tacks
his childhood shared, spreading
to the family he calls his own

mother huddles beside the trees,
the way home on her mind
Mcdonald’s or KFC?

I bask in this ordinary
give no fuck to all lost and leaving
simply listen closely, like a schoolchild
to these sounds,
everlasting

Go, gracefully.

Seems you can’t always, go back
start from the last lesson you,
remember learning

falling backwards, submerged
inside blankets of forgiveness

fresh breath and new promise,
ease the familiarity, comfort my ears
that strain under a father’s steady truths,
fearsome traffic pushes around us as he drives
pressing into me, roads to nowhere new,
form scenes these eyes greet like a lost friend
still I am crushed with blissful acceptance,
I could never stray, from such roots of love

take mummy’s hand, snapping
from my own, I must be,
my own , else,
turning key to the door of home
will puncture stars above,
constellation conflict, patterns of the past,
heavy, hindering

my direction is in battle, like that old hard-headed man,
who was a staple to the community,
somehow symbolising both the chaos and the unity

I’m intimidated like a child, by an everyday reality,
but I’ll flood tears, fisherman’s storms, at the value
lurking deep in a simple sea

hoping that I can take in every moment as it’s given,
I will not forget to appreciate the life that I am living
please, just give me one more day to accept the fact that I am going to die
and maybe just one more to live like I am truly alive

I’ll cherish the way my grandma insists still, on penguin bars and bingo cards,
crush headphones to ears kid-like, swearing blindly,
music can save and strengthen the world’s worst
clutch to friendships mapping the globe,
reaching for all they continue to teach me,

never will I fear, the silence of cynical
though the mild fireside in my head, like gentle old age,
shall flicker, nudging each made mistake, to the ashes

I’ll chase what’s hidden finding solace in a microphone,
these words offer you, the form of love I’ve got to give,
touching me for that one moment
till realise, I’ve got my own life to live

remain still, listen to the river run
washing smog and sick, from dark towns unsung
this release my call to arms for endless passion, the rising sun
singing with hymn sheets invisible, hallelujah, to moving on

ice cream vans, pulled away
toothless children asked for flake’s
holding needles laced, words unkind

happy faces drop like tears
whilst wrinkled men
watch on, a blank
bygone love lost
shuffling in cigarette contempt

windows racked side by side
doors closed-in, the stumble of stray cats,
creeping

plain washing swills, cold wind whistles
above lonesome swings, chained
a playground defeated, silenced
of voices, of values

statements of race
faceless threats
scrawled loosely
in death-black, over unused water fountains

scruffy national flags
aimlessly strewn in fitful promise
dusty eyes, once raised to vibrant symbols
like fists invisible
are meeting concrete,
today

a mother padlocks visions,
resting disappointed head, dizzy
against cracked floorboards
dreaming herself away

violin strings crackling
from the famished record player

what’s the word for hope?
begs baby, rattle astrewn,
across a colourless cot
but the mother, has sunk

such compassion bled
through fragile eyes
a sudden love in being heard
your words subtle reminders
of individuality’s warmth

hidden creative wonder
sneaking amongst the turbulence
of a world that rarely has the time

weaving the way you see and sense
over blank pages of freedom

you hide it for the people
who’ll give more than a passing glance
value your need to express
stepping away from themselves
giving all the room you need

your family whom you depend upon
just know their pride comes in hidden tears
falling against all the patient understanding
you’ll ever need

small, silent belief creeps into your eyes
whispering with nothing but an open heart

for you shake in what you cannot do
as I marvel at all that you can

simple your steps
moving steady across everydays
built on familiar faces
patterns of stability

I’ll wait and wait
for anything you want to say
don’t lower that head
in the time it takes

as your smile comes with warmth, in unspoken faith
hiding all the problems you ever faced
I crumble in a feeling of awe
for I swear this is what it really means
to be a man

humble sir,
all I can promise you
is to never forget
your every word

(for Ozzie)

A German-formed throb of cavernous progressive metal is whipping several barrier-clutching crowd members into steady gear, as The Ocean’s spacious and layered outpourings welcome newcomers to a gradually filling Rescue Rooms with music that’s tight, immersing and proficiently delivered. Having gone through nightmarish ‘police-that-weren’t-and-stole-money-..seriously’ experiences recently, there’s an extra desperation to floppy haired vocalist Rossetti’s guttural wrenching matched by remaining member’s eyes-closed focus, within an atmospheric half hour.

As scrawny figures in tight jeans and unkempt hair brimming boyish youth to the bare bones clamber on stage, accompanied by the delicate frame of blonde princess Eva Spence..it’s sometimes easy, human even, to slip into naivety and feel suspicious of Rolo Tomassi’s reputation for fearless, frantic, monstrous experimental craft that melts faces and rarely relents. Then they, like, start to play. (farewell, preconceptions)

The UK’s finest at confounding technicality eased with geeky-fun flat out enjoyment, there’s not a second for breath when floundering screeches meet gentle croons meet keyboard dazzlement meet juggernaut guitar slam meet bass bounce meet a thousand drums meet…. you get it, it’s complex. Live you’re treated to the visual treat of a thrusting Spence who spirals tiny mid-fit limbs to that MASSIVE voice of hers, as the boys flail about in spits and spats to the backdrop of her gracious ballerina sway. Phew.

Truth is, those not prepared may well scratch heads and whisper ‘what is this?’ for days later, and arguably that shows in an alarmingly low response from this crowd. Only dance-death closer ‘Party Wounds’ really clicking in big ways, causing a severe case of what can only be dubbed ‘mathematical headbanging’.

There feels the weight of a tidal wave as bodies surge forward to the beckoning white of Greg Puciato’s eyes. Storming on stage looking ready to kill, The Dillinger Escape Plan’s front man bellows opener ‘Farewell, Mona Lisa’ as the remaining four of this influential American five-piece tear normality to shreds in seconds. Known for injury-prone ‘no holds barred’ live shows, tonight is a definite box ticked on that front. Within minutes, Puciato is hanging from the Rescue Rooms balcony, stopmovingelsehe’llexplode guitarist Ben Weinman has ended up in the crowd and slightly calmer axeman Jeff Tuttle has only gone and ripped his trousers.

The frightening cohesion of such mess is a sight to behold, songs old and new flicker and flash with no real delays and for all the chugging mathmetal, sound levels are, well, impressively audible (!). There’s an undying scent of rebellious confusion that seeps from the sweaty bodies on and off stage, of not giving a damn, of finding a place to get a touch reckless and as ‘Mouth Of Ghosts’ provides a moving respite with a little piano, a little cleanly sung vocals, it’s fitting that minutes later in a chaotic finale’ Weinman is thrusting atop the venue’s bar and seemingly everything is crowdsurfed. (is that, a table? It is.)

So business as usual then? Dutifully. Just don’t let on that offstage, these guys are the sweetest ever. (Shh)

You and me and all the world, in the time we have. Let them call us crooks, let them discount our worth. For this, a little piece of heaven in a day, is to be called our own.

As the bus chugged us back, you’d close your eyes, drifting against the rhythms of your easy come thoughts. I’d watch the passing traffic, I’d believe.

In dingy pubs where aged women lean out from the door, smoke drags and looked worn. In empty parks with an intoxicating mess of broken drunks bathed in escape, in midnight nature rustling through forlorn shadows of silent trees. In chip shops heaving ordinary people in ordinary lunch hours with ordinary values. In simple jokes and nothing being serious, in a grandmother’s wisdom in music to sing and not think, in all those big dreams hiding in little homes, in people being there for you because they want to be. In the grim towns people put down meaning something more than they would ever know. Of me just being one person in millions, and in you being another. In all of this coming all at once in a tiny moment of a tiny breakthrough where everything …feels…

And surely, that feeling.. I swear it’s all we need.

Roots come scorched, blood-deep
homegrown values, don’t you leave
I’ll cling on so tight
as streets heave under my feet,
in and out of frantic unsettle
I am in need

time snatched at progress
the here and now you are an ongoing foe
swirling experiences carved in temporary fingertips
vicious coming and always goings
like dealer’s fingers trembling over cold cash
‘got the needs, need the feeds’

you’re growing old so quick past friends
this boy thinks there’s better ways to be a man
but I always did hold weight
to the faith of my own heart

floods of precious memories
come back around
hold me in good stead
remind me what achievement truly means
taking trains for the thrill
we held cities close
friendships melted like moments inside all the music
do you miss it this way, or do you still feel like everything is yet to come?

believing this was forever felt blissfully easy, back then
so for those who maintain the adventure lies
in what you make of what you have
I will give you whatever is my own
in moving forwards

shake like chainsaw force
of troops when battle gets mechanical
head keep down and let it happen,
skimming over the pavement grey
give in, give in to truth
cause all the music in the world
can’t dream these dreams
content, it’s time for us to dance

come take my hand
show me love in desperate faces
show me the humble laugh of my father
embrace the swarming dust
of engulfing defeat
burning in
intoxicated by
an undying beauty
of less

This one’s something fun, experimental. The lyrics and chaos of the song more than the video helped it come to life. But that sure influenced too!

- -

Offer me a drag, I wouldn’t refuse. (non-smokers do anything for the attention) Lock your caution eyes to my darkening glare, from across the unsatisfactory heave of a going-nowhere party. Slumped on the floor, a pile of vinyl surrounds, tracing over the music that makes you tingle, choose it low-lit silent film score and god knows you’ll have me snared.

Shadows of lust will move through us as conversation is all me on you (take this night to be the one you give it up and lose control.) Violence will pulse in the way you brush my fingers on our streetside walk. You’re all a tease. I’m all yours. (but you’re mine, girl)

Tremble in a twilight’s howl as we clamber rushing streams and forbidden branches snap sharp under our toes. We’re suckers for the thrill and I’d jump the reality plank or carve stars with my submission to your every will. Stare me in hard and move those lips close anything to whisper to my shaking hands as they unravel rose thorns to ensnare us in a desperate love that stabs and scars.

My senses surge to get out of my head before I dance a moonlight serenade over your twinkling figure with wolverish movement, falling for every word you ever said. (before you’ve yet to breathe a syllable)

This obsession screws with my coronation street dreams of corner shop content and as you turn away from my possessive embrace, I can’t help but surrender in welcoming you to your worst nightmare.

For I’m in blood deep this time darling. And there’s just no telling what might happen next.