The first time you made me a Bloody Mary I didn’t know you well enough to spit it out. We've come a long way since then...
Please don’t be so sentimental when it comes to writing my obituary; just note the crudest facts about how I took my own life. Please, no tears, just high blood pressure and palpitations. Donate my body for scientific purposes, even the eyes; I’m too scared to see the after-life. Please cremate my remains, I don’t fancy rotting in a wooden box, I’d rather burn.
Thursday, 30 June 2011
Monday, 30 May 2011
Fathers Day
When I think of you I think of bald heads and Risk - dining tables filled with boards and armies. Tactics and conquering.
I think of first footballs – too hard for my toes to handle.
I think of games we played with Lego and remote control cars - I can’t remember what that game was called, maybe you can remind me?
I think of mixing my cereals – you call it the Shenanigan Mix.
I think of Slip-Catch Willy – blindfolded siblings playing games at the bottom of the stairs.
I think of finger games like PC Plod.
I think of cough candy twists in the morning and The New Forest in the afternoons.
I remember kissing that van with the tomato on the bumper before bedtime and hearing stories about rabbits and bombs and living on a farm.
Nanny Duck loved you because you were charming, but I only know her from the photographs.
“To Timothy, Happy Christmas, Love Timothy”; you used to buy yourself Christmas presents – little books about trains. The Mallard was your favourite (it’s my favourite too.)
I guess that being a gas man from fifteen to fifty isn’t what you wanted at fourteen; I believe you wanted to be a butler, caring for an old Major in a country manor, but you shouldn’t be sad. I am proud to tell people about whom you are and what you do.
I promise I’ll pay off your mortgage soon, but first I need a job.
I think of first footballs – too hard for my toes to handle.
I think of games we played with Lego and remote control cars - I can’t remember what that game was called, maybe you can remind me?
I think of mixing my cereals – you call it the Shenanigan Mix.
I think of Slip-Catch Willy – blindfolded siblings playing games at the bottom of the stairs.
I think of finger games like PC Plod.
I think of cough candy twists in the morning and The New Forest in the afternoons.
I remember kissing that van with the tomato on the bumper before bedtime and hearing stories about rabbits and bombs and living on a farm.
Nanny Duck loved you because you were charming, but I only know her from the photographs.
“To Timothy, Happy Christmas, Love Timothy”; you used to buy yourself Christmas presents – little books about trains. The Mallard was your favourite (it’s my favourite too.)
I guess that being a gas man from fifteen to fifty isn’t what you wanted at fourteen; I believe you wanted to be a butler, caring for an old Major in a country manor, but you shouldn’t be sad. I am proud to tell people about whom you are and what you do.
I promise I’ll pay off your mortgage soon, but first I need a job.
Wednesday, 11 May 2011
PRE ORDER BEWILDER EP FROM ART IS HARD RECORDS
http://artishardrecords.tumblr.com/post/5338564404/aih006-bewilder-this-isnt-life-its-just-stuff
Saturday, 16 April 2011
Monday, 14 March 2011
sunset
I think I’m sat away from everything that nobody can know.
I think I’m sat away from everything, where nobody can go.
The farthest branch could hang me,
The weakest branch could hold me.
If I could just escape, this tree is where I would want to go.
If I could just escape I’d find this tree beside the silent lake.
The farthest branch could hang me,
And the weakest branch could hold me.
And in sunrise my silhouette would be to the west
And at sunset it would be swaying in the east.
I am king of all the castles when I’m here and when I’m dreaming,
I should show you all the bruises up and down my spine.
I should teach you all the ways to drink my skin like poison.
Bewildered and sunburnt, I make my way back to you.
I think I’m sat away from everything, where nobody can go.
The farthest branch could hang me,
The weakest branch could hold me.
If I could just escape, this tree is where I would want to go.
If I could just escape I’d find this tree beside the silent lake.
The farthest branch could hang me,
And the weakest branch could hold me.
And in sunrise my silhouette would be to the west
And at sunset it would be swaying in the east.
I am king of all the castles when I’m here and when I’m dreaming,
I should show you all the bruises up and down my spine.
I should teach you all the ways to drink my skin like poison.
Bewildered and sunburnt, I make my way back to you.
Tuesday, 1 February 2011
Flying South
Chapter one
I guess the first time we spoke was around winter. I remember because we watched the birds flying south, and I remember saying
“I wish we were flying south, th...”
There was a short interval of sirens. Neither of us spoke. I never speak over sirens and she had nothing to say.
I also never speak in night clubs. I hate raising my voice over loud noises. I’m the same around trains. Sometimes I just stop talking mid sentence. Leaving whoever I’m with in limbo. Hanging on my last word. I continue, mid sentence, as if nothing had ever happened. And everybody except my closest friends just look bewildered as they try to remember what I was saying. They usually never do - loud noises always come in the middle of the dullest conversation. I guess it’s just god or whoever trying to make me shut up. But I always carry on. Fuck god, or whoever.
The sirens pass, and I continue
“...en we’d be there to watch them arrive”
She replied, instantly
“then let’s go”
I said no, but we shared a smile. Brief, but real.
I knew from this moment on, if we weren’t already close friends (which we probably weren’t) that one day we would be.
I think she knew that too.
Chapter two
Her feet were always cold.
I remember lying in bed with her. Our bodies close and warm and wet. When it got too warm she’d bend her knees and put her feet on my stomach. I’d tense up with the cold.
But she wouldn’t flinch. She’d keep them there a while, till I had absorbed most of the cold, then she’d straighten her legs again and we’d continue lying. I’d take her hand and squeeze it softly. I never thanked her but she always knew I was thankful.
Some things just don’t need saying. And when you do say them it never feels right. It takes something away and you just lay there a while, regretting the words and wishing you could turn back time by thirty seconds, and just turn to look at her in silence instead. That always says enough if it’s the right look. And when you’re in love, it’s always the right look. Even when it’s an angry look, it’s the right kind of angry.
It’s the same with “I live you’s”
She never liked them and I didn’t really get why.
But now I know “some things are best left unsaid”
Chapter three
She had cold feet, and I had cold hands.
We were probably both anaemic but neither of us liked the doctors, Guinness or iron tablets so we never bothered to do anything about it.
Sometimes when we sat in bed at night, reading, whilst her housemates watched the Simpsons, I’d hold a cup of tea in my hands to warm them up.
It felt amazing, like drinking soup on a winter evening.
After holding the mug for as long as I could stand, I’d let go and softly take hold of her upper arm. I would always grip the mug in such a way that the palms of my hands became numbingly hot, but the fingers would remain icy.
This is what she liked
Pure heat would be too much
And the combination of boiling and freezing was a bit of a head fuck and always made her dizzy.
Helium dizzy.
Chapter four
Her and her friends had a theory -
The first day of summer is the day you go to light a cigarette and you can’t see the flame at the end of the match.
Summer didn’t start until that day
And that night they’d all go to the local seaside town and get drunk on the pebbly beach to celebrate the start of summer
Sometimes summer started early and sometimes late
She told me once that the latest summer she’d ever had was in two thousand and seven.
The eighteenth of august. It had been a particularly rainy year.
The earliest was a few years before. The fourth of February
They didn’t celebrate that year. The group saw spring as their favourite season, and this year it had been skipped, and so they all felt a bit bitter.
I guess the first time we spoke was around winter. I remember because we watched the birds flying south, and I remember saying
“I wish we were flying south, th...”
There was a short interval of sirens. Neither of us spoke. I never speak over sirens and she had nothing to say.
I also never speak in night clubs. I hate raising my voice over loud noises. I’m the same around trains. Sometimes I just stop talking mid sentence. Leaving whoever I’m with in limbo. Hanging on my last word. I continue, mid sentence, as if nothing had ever happened. And everybody except my closest friends just look bewildered as they try to remember what I was saying. They usually never do - loud noises always come in the middle of the dullest conversation. I guess it’s just god or whoever trying to make me shut up. But I always carry on. Fuck god, or whoever.
The sirens pass, and I continue
“...en we’d be there to watch them arrive”
She replied, instantly
“then let’s go”
I said no, but we shared a smile. Brief, but real.
I knew from this moment on, if we weren’t already close friends (which we probably weren’t) that one day we would be.
I think she knew that too.
Chapter two
Her feet were always cold.
I remember lying in bed with her. Our bodies close and warm and wet. When it got too warm she’d bend her knees and put her feet on my stomach. I’d tense up with the cold.
But she wouldn’t flinch. She’d keep them there a while, till I had absorbed most of the cold, then she’d straighten her legs again and we’d continue lying. I’d take her hand and squeeze it softly. I never thanked her but she always knew I was thankful.
Some things just don’t need saying. And when you do say them it never feels right. It takes something away and you just lay there a while, regretting the words and wishing you could turn back time by thirty seconds, and just turn to look at her in silence instead. That always says enough if it’s the right look. And when you’re in love, it’s always the right look. Even when it’s an angry look, it’s the right kind of angry.
It’s the same with “I live you’s”
She never liked them and I didn’t really get why.
But now I know “some things are best left unsaid”
Chapter three
She had cold feet, and I had cold hands.
We were probably both anaemic but neither of us liked the doctors, Guinness or iron tablets so we never bothered to do anything about it.
Sometimes when we sat in bed at night, reading, whilst her housemates watched the Simpsons, I’d hold a cup of tea in my hands to warm them up.
It felt amazing, like drinking soup on a winter evening.
After holding the mug for as long as I could stand, I’d let go and softly take hold of her upper arm. I would always grip the mug in such a way that the palms of my hands became numbingly hot, but the fingers would remain icy.
This is what she liked
Pure heat would be too much
And the combination of boiling and freezing was a bit of a head fuck and always made her dizzy.
Helium dizzy.
Chapter four
Her and her friends had a theory -
The first day of summer is the day you go to light a cigarette and you can’t see the flame at the end of the match.
Summer didn’t start until that day
And that night they’d all go to the local seaside town and get drunk on the pebbly beach to celebrate the start of summer
Sometimes summer started early and sometimes late
She told me once that the latest summer she’d ever had was in two thousand and seven.
The eighteenth of august. It had been a particularly rainy year.
The earliest was a few years before. The fourth of February
They didn’t celebrate that year. The group saw spring as their favourite season, and this year it had been skipped, and so they all felt a bit bitter.
Wednesday, 12 January 2011
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