Faith in the art of reason

(This piece was wrote for Sian, my first girlfriend who came out with the title all the way back in 1993. I don’t remember why she came out with it)

Faith in the art of reason

Reason our your own personal

Sense of religion

I don’t personally believe in religion

Nor god

But it doesn’t stop me

Being into religion in my own

Private way

But that’s not me.

It has no appeal to me

I pray in my own way

I search in my own way

Faith in the art of reason

Good idea

Badly thought out

Faith in the art of reason

Good idea

Badly thought out. 

I love writing (3)

(Another poem from 1997 following on I love writing theme

with more questions about the way I was back then)

Who am I?

I am me.

Who are you?

You are you.

Why are we here?

We here because

We want to be.

What can I say?

I can say anything I want.

What can I say?

What can say anything you want.

What will it prove?

God knows what it will prove

Will these words say

What I want them to say?

Of course they can’t.

Will they describe how

Much I love you?

Of course they can’t.

Will they describe

How much I love you?

Of course they can’t.

Will it show a brilliant new way

Of saying how much

I love you?

Of course they can’t.

Why then?

Nothing can describe how much

I love you.

How can you prove this?

How can proclaim undying love

In the space of a few words

You just can’t.

You just can’t. 

I love writing (2)

(Another piece from 1997 following on from I love writing asking more questions
this time)

Who am I?

A long haired

Average lager drinker

With a book

Of some description

Or the other

And an un-usual dream

In a pocket

Wht am I?

An man

An young, lanky, tall man

Obessioned with dream

And the wonderment of living.

Why am I the way I am?

What makes me tick?

What makes me think

Breathe and sweat?

Who am I?

I share things in common

With other people

Similar height

Similar build

Eyes.

Why then do I then feel different?

Why?

Why?

Minus my words. 

I love writing

(This is another study of my thoughts of writing from 1997)

I love writing 

I love playing with words

Finding new meanings

For old words

Finding ways

To describe

What has been said

Many, many times

In many, many ways.

I love writing

Any time

Any place

Any situation

In times of need

In times of boredom

I write

I scribble

Jot down words

Sometimes good

Sometimes bad

But all important

All me

Others may doodle

Draw funny, little pictures

Me I prefer to write

Even the most

Minor, rubbish verses

I prefer to write

I prefer to write

What I feel

 I prefer to say

What I feel.

I’ve seen the rubbish

And heartbreak

It’s given people

And it’s left me thinking

It just ain’t worth the bother

Why then I am writing this?

It could be

Because of the lies

And sick of the lies

Of hearing them

And writing them

Both

Both

But reflect I love writing

And always will

No what is said. 

One Mistake (Version 1)

(NB. This piece is from 1997 this time and is clearly influenced from the work of the punk poet, Joolz. Not sure if I agree with all of this but it's a change of gears certainly and does reflect some of my more harsher realism pieces that followed over the years. According to the title this is Version One but alas I have no records of a Version 2)

But nobody asked her

Nobody asked 

What she thought,

Nobody bothered

To tell what she should do

Nobody bothered

After that night

Nobody cared

After she had made

The biggest mistake

Of her life

A quick bit on the side

A stab in the dark

And then

Then that was it

That was it

Her whole life had changed

Now lumbered

With number two

She would have to learn

To fend for two

No more clubbing

No more constant partying

To god knows what hours of the morning

No more constant flirting

With any given lad of her given choice

The queen of the ball

Was now a single mum

Struggling to survive

On fuck all money

And fuck all hope.

It all changed.

It all happened

When for a few moments pleasure

(with some drunken

pissed up lad)

who probably wouldn’t

even remember her name

let alone her face

in the following mornings

events

she decided to shag some blind stranger

in some dark, remote corner

if only she’d listened

listened to her mates

who pleased with her

not to go

listened to her mates

who pleased with her

not to go.

Listened to her body

Who pleased for protection

Listened to her mum

Who told her once

Always plan your every move

Never jump in head first

But she didn’t listen

And threw it all away

Now look at her

She’s up all night

If not for the baby

Drinking

Drinking anything she can get her hands on

Be it whiskey

Vodka

Brandy

You name it, she drinks it

And she cries

Her whole life’s a wreck

And all because of that night

All because of that one mistake. 

Never

NB. This piece dates back to 1996 and is one of my favourites so far from my this archive so far-  kind of setting the scene for my first book 'Return to Kemptown' on it's more comedic pieces. 

It's more of a reflection of where I was, and where I was going to. 

Not sure if it's kind of where I ended up, but I was only then (23). 

I've never been a hero

I’ve never been a villain

I’ve never been a whistler

I’ve never been a painter

Of great imaginative depth

But I’ve never,

Ever been a ordinary Joe.

I’ve never stolen

I’ve rarely lied

I’ve wandered wrote poems

Of great personal depth

But I’ve never,

Ever been a ordinary Joe.

I’ve always worked

I’ve always done my best

Said the wrong thing

But I’ve never

Ever been a ordinary Joe.

The difference is

Perhaps I dream

Dream of a better future

Making me glad

I’ve never

Been a ordinary Joe.

Never, ever

Been a ordinary Joe

Never, ever

Been a ordinary Joe

And I hope it never changes.

truth or lies?

This next poem also from 1996 I am not sure where this came from.

I clearly was pissed off with somebody, possibly my friend Dave at the time
but am not sure.

Truth / lies

Do I believe

What I heard last night?

Do I believe

What was said

Or do I dmiss

It as rubbish?

Complete and utter rubbish

Than expect the truth

And say

What I heard was the truth

But what if

He said the truth

Was actually the truth,

I can’t call him a lair.

He’s my friend.

How could I call one of

My friend a liar?

I can’t.

I just can’t,

It would ruin the friendhip

And worse still

Leave me with nothing

But regrets.

Regrets for what I said

Regrets for what I did

And would smell

Of sour grapes

Because I haven’t got

What’s hes got

And leave me feeling

Inhuman

And stood against the void

In bitterness.

Two Sides

Around 1996, I got into buddhism in a big way, big way and this next poem kinda reflects
the logic of that.

Not sure if i agree with this looking back but i like the wordplay in it and i think it touches on the split i had with Sian my first major girlfriend from around 1996.

There are two sides

To every story.

There are two sides

To every coin

For every tale

Told

Wrote

Or described.

There is another

Version to it

Another way of telling it

Perhaps focusing on

Another character,

Perhaps changing

The ending

Perhaps remembering

Things in a slightly

Different way

The road is open

And the choices are many

But which is the right one

And the wrong one?

Only you can decide

Only you can decide.

Late Poem

This poem also from 1996 is about running late to meet a friend in a pub.

something I known for doing a lot back in those days - lol

A poem to reflect

How late I am?

A poem to reflect

How sorry I am?

I could blame it on the bus

I could blame on

Bumping into Mark Burgess

From the Chameleons

Which actually did happen

I could blame it on just

About any damn thing

And it would be true

Well, true to a degree

Well true in a way

Well, what way?

My way

Does it mean I am lying?

Me?

Lie?

Fib?

Well, anything’s possible

In my world

With mixed truths

Sketching out across broken dawns

And pieces of paper

Laying there for days afterwards.

Heart and Soul

This next poem wrote in 1996 was directly inspired by Heart and Soul
by Joy Division.

Going back through these pieces, what I didn't realise was how long
I'd been into Joy Division or indeed how long I have been writing about them for,

Guess with me been from Stretford where Ian lived in at one point, it was only
natural I started so young.

Nothing seems real to me anymore.

Not a thing.

No nothing.

I look out of the window

And look at the outside world.

Nothing looks so clear

And yet so unreal.

I have music blazing

In the background

Ian Curtis

Joy Division

Screaming out their own harse

Dark images of Manchester.

I can hear my Dad

Turning up his TV

As loud as possible.

The news is on

Some maniac is on the loose

Butchering people

In some quite horrific way

Nothing seems real to me.

I look out of my window

Out there

At the outside world

What other crimes

Are happening right now?

More rapes?

More murders?

More robberies?

No wonder

Nothing seems real to me

My room is so quiet

Deathly quiet

I don’t know any criminals

Looking out of my window

It is no wonder I feel cut off.

It is no wonder I feel alone

It is no wonder I feel weird

It is no wonder I feel

The way I do

Heart and soul

Heart and Soul

Laughing at creation

Heart and Soul