The Factory

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

Month: February, 2016

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.


Lester Bangs’ Moonlight Raiders

Surfaces so hot they feel cold.
Skin is dried wax,
the damage is done.

Playing with the big boys –
they surround you star-struck.

Lester Bangs,
Lou Reed,
essays of demagogues,
boozed up logic,
drugged eyeballs popping
words everywhere
except in the pages they belong to.

Gather the Raiders,
their sweat encrusted t-shirts,
we’ll take one last ride
into moonlight regression.

The End of Factories

Yesterday was the last post from the Factories collection. I am very happy with the way most of the pieces went down, so thanks for reading, liking and commenting.

I will be leaving prose poetry alone for a while. Although, I like to dabble in the style it is by no means my strongest form of expression.

The next mini collection is well under way. It will comprise of ten poems of a darker, observational narrative of situations I’ve been invovled in, or goings on in the world I feel the need to comment on. The working title for this collection is: This Place Called Memories.

A Man with Nine Cats

Does a man with nine cats truly lead a life full of atypical occurrences and intervals?

I sit back, deeper into my rented sofa and watch the television with heartfelt intrigue. He tells the interviewer of his wife’s subtleties, emotional duties and reservations. I cannot help but wonder if she really exists. The only marriage I feel is real is the one created by the interviewer. It involves me, my eyes, my empty stomach, backache from the weeks labour, and of course, the man with nine cats.

His suit is not tailored, but blended with raw stitching – a race to finish before lunch. A car painted a shade of normality that most of us are familiar with, do little to cover the pain of a child who has fended off rats with Roman armour. Alone. His alcoholic mother drank with next-to-no balance, lost in headspace, yet he cares for his family. Ears perked with patients, enough to never tire of made-up stories from an imagination that lusts escape from torment.

If he had stayed aboard for one more stop he would have arrived at a church, or any building of conventional religion, extraterrestrial to most of us, but more exceptional than the documentary persistently claims and attempts to debunk.


So, it is worth noting that you will notice obvious similarities between this piece and Friday’s post, A Painted Man. I wanted to post both pieces to show the development that  it went through.

No one travels as far as he. The sights he smells through forests of hair and thirsty blood, the views of girls becoming their own masters in life. The weather changing so often, abolishing the seasons to myth, lost to fancy and almost forgotten entirely. And so it was, a return to rhyme; the essence he had tried to blot out and extinguish. For hours he sits, never moving and famous for it, upon the steps behind the concert hall. Listening, always listening, joining the dots when his hearing fails to drive him. Through his mind all journeys take shape on the edges of notes played by unknown artists. He composes his own maps and never looks back.

A Painted Man

No one travels as far as he. Smelling sights through forests of hair, he feels the thirsty blood, as girls become their own masters in life. The weather changing so often it blurs the edges of seasons. The hours spent sitting, never moving and famous for it, upon the steps behind the concert hall. Joining the dots in his mind; his hearing out of range. Journeys take shape on the edges of notes played by unknown artists. A living statue, a painted man, tending daily to his vantage point. He sees the same faces, dubbing his own laughter, hushed senses frame his portrait. His hearing still, no truer calling could suit his traits. Musician, teacher, soldier; no order of necessity. Saved by the peace brought by disability. The days spent peering into the phenakistoscope were endless. This city lacking in multicultural status, however, if he could hear the voices of the people he so faithfully watched, he knew their accents would differ, even if the words were the same. Silence. Then the orders burst from the radio, his ears restored, the shooting begins. The sniper’s vantage point tended, he retires from another mission.

The Cuffs of Giants

The cave yawned and bellowed as I tickled tongues at its inner most depth.
No lust for hibernation, just an eagerness to avoid climates by jumping backseat, heaters full blown. An intimidation with no intention to allow for anything else, but affliction against the kindly, like pitching a tent on the bubbles of boiling water.

Songs crowd an ecosystem of music raging with so many styles you cannot decide whether to dance or dislike. A migration from dance floor to bar, to toilets to car parks, or the realism taken off the cuff – the land of giants awaits.

Great lakes are indoor pools lined with native descendants bathing at the borders of radical cusps. Heated and cleansed by an understanding, as vast pockets of world music surrenders them to weeklong parties. No one is in transparent need to find themselves, as they were not lost in the first place.

A photograph taken on my 16th birthday, ten years later that artless child changed colour via the backdoor; the fire escape to the next world. An offering of wild egos, a climate that does everything but show you the cards of good fortune.

Delayed trains and empty taxi stands, drivers frozen, time to objectively suss opinions. Words spoken yesterday via the medium of argument, as you choke on a powdered froth. The wilderness is the cave, the cave is the train jammed up the line, the line is the tracks that took us from the maternal womb, but it never takes us out of the place we are so desperate to escape.


A chrysalis of brushed gold molded for safe keeping; frozen in life. Unable to fulfill its quest amongst the longest of winters. Unclear and nuclear for eight months, the pregnancy lacking signs of wilting. Sunshine: uncompressed, audible, dry and not gated. A watering can, its head detached on a hammock; a heavy nook of grass and daisies weaved and inseparable like my unkempt beard. Why is it that in the hardest of times, humans and nature hike backwards to a state lacking in cleanliness? Why does it rain so excitedly in England, yet, so disastrously and infrequently in France? If we were still connected by that morsel leg of land, I wonder if we would still find ourselves under such vitriolic attack and lewd invasion; bawdy and indecent.


Crossing boys with beards and men with sunken, low brow attitudes together ducking suspicious glances while eternal rest was granted with familiar haste. The time came to leave with the river as it bedded down amongst curtains of pine and leaf dwelling inhabitants; natural criminals that feed so insignificantly. Infants of the all-natural tundra, melted over the last three years into shags of plastic. We left it behind, but it did not grieve us and both flourished without caution, gravity or restraint. A congregation of dignified widows; no nod to deities, a lack of cross where they prey. When we are buried miles away we will have what we had and forget what we didn’t. Miniscule, it maybe, but our thoughts left spoken in conversations are still deemed too magnified for the State of Planet Earth.

Ladders of the South Coast

More exposed than cliff-top shrubs, or desperate like the man in the dole queue stood in the grooves of routine. His parking spot reserved indefinitely after a third redundancy in as many years. Blighted eyes remember days of promise while ticking forms for ballot boxes. Now, a punch-bag for racists on a Friday night, but no one goes out Fridays nowadays. They, too, have abandoned him.

Balancing books with sea legs like riding space hoppers over sand that fell from the Sun’s reach. Ice-flows retreat and seas welcome us home from mountainous plains and out of caves, out of dire conditions, over-indulging sleep and financial starvation. Summer dashes doorsteps allowing spring a year’s good grace.

A mole on the nose of the south coast, I look out over the city I was born and came back to. From here it is not, too, daunting as I recount experiences and drug-hardened smiles, telling disasters, yet reigning with confident eyes that guide words of art, while stinging uncultured retinas.

Two pieces of land that equate to the right and left halves of my brain, separated by a ladder of boats. The sun: sinister and brawn, poked with pitch folks and fierce intrigue all over my body; more exposed than cliff-top shrubs, more desperate than the man in the dole queue.