The Factory

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


I awoke at the feet of a man,
Clothes drenched and dirty.
Body fluids; human and machine in origin.

He sat tapping the curved edge
Of a one-stringed guitar, swigging
Lumpy milk from a greasy glass,

Barely flinching as the sour mess
Slid down behind the folds
Of his ageing throat, laughing,

Hand pressed against wall; cold brick,
Slimy mortar —
My only comfort in this rendition of rebirth.

‘Leave Me Alone’ Hinds Review (Album)

As effortlessly cool as this debut release by the Madrid-based quartet is, I feel we may have heard this sound before. The album is a homage to garage-pop, lo-fi indie and although the sound maybe …

Source: ‘Leave Me Alone’ Hinds Review (Album)

We Are Moving!!!

I am moving all of my music journalism related articles to a seperate page. Link Below.

The move is due to my journalism schedule picking up pace recently, so when potential clients come and check out my work, I don’t want them to have to wade through poetry to get to what they’re after.

However, this doesn’t mean you have to miss out, simply follow the link and start following that page as well.



City of Foxes

Our back garden: green and yellow farmer’s fields.
Daffodils, rape seed, and hay bales lined up on hillsides
opposing the main road that split housing estates from nature.

Yet, I never saw a fox.
Not until I moved to a city –
20 years into my life.

That town never felt like my true home.
So, like the fox, I moved out to find a food source,
to expel hometown torment,  a love affair of new experiences,

A mixed land to conquer, or dissolve into.
Leicester, my new found playground.
Ironically home to a football club nicknamed the Foxes.


Salou’s beach
with its sands
bars spaced–
neat vertabrae,
a spine stretching
and bending
down to Cambrils.

This day of summer’s peace
is Catalonia’s legacy.
A bloody regretful history gives way
to holiday makers sipping 14 euro pina coladas
on hot sands and sun loungers.

History sacrificed
for the shouts and screams;
enjoyment for future generations.
Puzzled tourists lost down Las Ramblas
transformed into intrepid explorers
lost on an island of gothic megastructures.

Terragona in a forever battle against modern mortar,
still fighting Rome’s ambition.
The fight is worthless,
there is a place in Catalonia for past and present.
Under the sun’s parasol
language is even.

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.