The Factory

Placing our thoughts in order and putting them into practice is the hardest challenge of all.

Month: December, 2015

Project Draw Update

A couple of weeks ago I posted about some old prose pieces I found hidden away on my laptop, and my desire to rewrite and publish, on this very blog, before the end of the year.

Unfortunately work has been more stressfull than anticipated, and I am ill!

On top of this, I am hosting Christmas this year, cooking and all.

This means I am done with writing and editing for one year. But I will be back early January.

Thank you all for reading my work and following my blog, it isn’t the most prolific blog, but it is very rewarding. Have a great holiday and see you next year.


That Tune You Whistle

I close my eyes, but imagination is worse than reality.
So, I open them to see knuckles clenched tightly,
before crumbling into dust.

The need to overcome my grief
is to walk through adjoining doors.
I hear that tune you always whistle coming from our home,
and I forget what fear is and cartwheel inside.

There is no way through.
I flit around the aisles of spectators,
relatives, and some unknowns.
No one pays attention, picks me up,
or holds me aloft.

Whistle, whistle.
That tune you whistle coming from inside.

Why do people still gawp and gaze
without reaction, through tangled eyelashes
and desert skin?
I soon realise what I am hearing… only I am hearing.

It is you calling me in from the outside,
as they put you to bed one last time.

The Plain

9pm: the winter darkness has checked-in,
keeping watch over several hundred metres
of disillusioned, half deserted concrete plain.
Everyone here is foreign in their own way.
Students of the local uni attach themselves
to this angular fragment of the city.
Coming from all over, an invasion spawned
from mass-marketing campaigns.
Eastern Europeans, mostly Polish, with their shops
selling food items beyond my pool of culinary knowledge,
adding colour to the edge of my world.
But, it’s the local drunks I find the hardest to decipher,
speaking a language I will never learn.

The Project Draw

Everyone has a draw, or folder on their computer, that contains complete and incomplete projects. I was going through mine the other day and came across thirty pieces of writing that I had intended to group together as a collection.

They are pieces of prose poetry, written back in 2013.

I have decided to revive them as pieces of experimental writings and thoughts. This means a massive overhaul in the form of redrafts. Even the ones marked ‘complete’ are getting a revamp.

I have two and a bit weeks left of work before we down tools for Christmas, leaving me with ten days off, and having already begun the task of redrafting, I aim to finish my most productive year to date in a flurry of completed works.

So it’s heads down for me, as I aim to start publishing the finished pieces right here, as I did with the previous mini collection, before the year is out.

Thank you all again for taking the time to read my work.

Stir of a Teaspoon

Written in 2011. Published in First Writer Magazine, 2015.

Overcast is the colour of my office space.
Overcast and laminated.
Am I watching the monitor,
or is it watching me?

The mounting tension is not clear,
hazy beyond recognition.
The binary of life has become tainted
with twos and threes creeping in
causing confusion and chaos
to reign collectively.

It’s no feeling of distrust
that makes me want and wane,
but an over exposure to the raw sewage
beneath me.

Fake cries.
Balled up tissue.
Whistling winds.
Magazines printed to full colour exposure.
Stacked, untidy piles.
Half finished notes.
Like so many tasks and ideas that
fade with the stir of a teaspoon.

And all we are is gravel beneath their feet.

disBANDed – ep 5: The Paddingtons


It was autumn 2006, a few of us piled into a car and took the short trip to Bristol. The venue was the Anson Rooms. The band was the Paddingtons.

Well, actually, the venue was the Anson Rooms two. A broom cupboard sized side room with a small bar at the back and a tiny stage at the front. I’ve been in bigger bathrooms. However, as anyone who has attended intimate shows like this one knows, they are the best, and for me out do any arena gig.

This gig was made even better because we didn’t know what to expect. We had heard a couple of songs from this indie/pop-punk five piece. I don’t think their first album was even out yet.

The support act were an unknown (outside of the Coventry area, anyway) three piece, called the Enemy. They went on to release on of the best debut albums of the decade, along with the Paddingtons’ First Comes First.

And it’s that debut album that I want to focus on.

The reason I started the disBANDed series was to champion those albums that you pick up and put down over many years, getting that same buzz of energy, that same “fuck yeah” moment that you got the first time you listened. You relive the adventure and experience, the desire to pick up the phone, dial your best friend and tell them to get said record. This album could have been released yesterday and still made an impact.

My favourite characteristic of any rock, punk song is duelling guitars. Both battling for attention; guitarists busting their wrists to get the maximum noise from their instrument. This record has that characteristic in abundance. I love this record for its energy, you instantly feel what a live show from these guys will be like. You can taste the sweat.

Sat on top of that rippling duvet of guitars are the vocals. The lyrics of every song are like tucking into your favourite meal – comforting. Had a bad day? The words are so singable you’ll be gripping your hairbrush and prancing in front of the mirror forgetting all about it in the first 30 seconds of the opening track, Some Old Girl. Their blend of daily life and teenage angst isn’t anything new or ground breaking, but they do it so well that it is a strangely refreshing take on well explored territory.

I’m currently sat watching back some of their music videos on Youtube, and I can’t help but notice a Strokes influence in their style; musically and fashion-wise. It’s a damn fine combo.

War, Freedom, Ignorance.

First published by Forward poetry, 2013


War is peace.

Killing our kinsmen, like warm milk,
Enriches our sleep through feverish nights
Laid on top of sheets in fear of spies.
Our stretchers a stage, our faces aired
As propaganda: Two Minutes Hate.
A generation weaned from mothers-to-slogans,
Teaching us that war is peace.

Freedom is slavery.

Conflicted by the places we grew up,
Attempting escape expands the gulf of divided loyalties.
The faster we run the closer the camera watches us
In an effort to define a method of rehabilitation.
If we are lucky we are sent to the front line
And awarded a heroes death,
As we reaffirm our place in history.

Ignorance is strength…

…To governments who enforce
Slogans upon the people.

A failure to teach statistics to our youth;
A side-step reaction,
A way to milk evasions,
A product of deceit,
Breeding intolerance,
Keeping us at war,
Turning ignorance into strength.