When your weapon’s wailin’ waitin’ on a one woman’s piece. A shift in dithers to slap your brain about right. A touch in tone intuit the intent, and breath accordingly, tears coming, I know. A little embarrassing between strangers but this is a meant-for embrace. Not a word exchanged, of course. You can’t be bothered and she seems the tight-lipped sort. Therapy. There’s crazed therapists runnin’ the streets out there. Just make sure and run into the right one, more often than not. Good therapy is great, and benefits strangely both parties, thus the entire enclave, in all of its enormity.

They say recovery is a big part of it, the training, I mean. Rest and recovery just as, if not, more important. So yeah, the old cliché, listen to your body, you don’t have much choice like. But here! Hear that new song out?

Got outta bed,
Coulda slept better
But I don’t even care
Cause I’m a real header

Woho, etc…

Good tune. Relatable like. Anyway, here’s a couple of wee poems and that…

Weeping Sores

Urbanity, my sanity
What has become of ye?
Crackled bark, a huddled spark
Sun-baked, flaking, from me tree

Urbane insane, a toiler’s truth
Has come of age as rotten fruit
And now, in truth, I sadly see
A spectre of what was sure to be

As for what lies beneath
Will you ask again?
And hammer your hands
And cut cocaine?

Let it rain.

They’re praying over you
In a building apart
Be at peace.

The beast remains
So let him lie
There’s better ways
To laugh and cry

So, long. Goodbye
At peace we part
Let the women mend your heart
At length, at last
Our final truth
The twist, at least:
A blackened, jagged, wisdom tooth

Ragged

Went for a walk
Late on last night
Just something I like to do
A city prowl
Walk hard and scowl
Take a look about ye is all

A stranger smiled
And I gave him
The best that I could muster
A hard man’s nod
And me the cod?
God Bless the boy who blusters

Blues born out of
Worn out shoes
Hard won wings
Wee frilly things
A golden glow doth God bestow
On those who chance the final throw

She was a cunt that couldn’t be beaten beat bate, too late. Pumelled though he did it remained rigid yet stickly sweet and pungent. Deep dive, thrive.

So fuck what r ye gonna do about it. Well if that’s what you say this is what I say and so we all say that there’s a spook in the room. And though your perception was off there for the nine months last, now you’re eschewing back into that spooky wee time where awareness of the whole thing is heightened and such. Tis a good craic time provided you’ve paid your way. And if you’ve not then it’s bits and drabs. Wee tastes just to taunt ye and say haha ye didn’t pay in, ye kant.

Some of us have better things to be doing, to be quite honest with you. Real life shit. Real life happens, hafta behave and be good. Run the gamut. Craic. Arite let’s drop a few names in here. Barney Kessel, Wes Montgomery, Grant Green, Jimmy Smith. Mungo Jerry, Charles and Eddie, The Charlo Twins.

Yeah so we’re playing jazz. Fully-fledged jazz. Only problem is I don’t know any tunes. I have my own, and even those I can’t remember. Aw shit where’d it all go wrong. But here. Lemme tell you something bout jazz, kid. You wanna be with it? You gotta get low down. And greasy, kid. Reeeeal greasy.

And the other thing. Kid. You never say the same thing twice. Never say the same thing, eh, two times. Ye hear? Kid. Now, onto the fundamentals. You need to know all the chords. Including Gsharp. And Fminor. Cflat diminished with an added nine. Yeah, get that shit down. Scales, modes, angular scales, two tone scales, half diminished, both ways. Learn it all, you’ll need it.

You ever heard of a guy called Django Reindhart? You know that he had only one finger? Yeah that’s right, so better get your shit together. Quit your dayjob. Dump your girlfriend. Move house. Do it, kid. Do. It. Van Morrison? Yeah? Greatest jazz singer that ever lived. Him and Joe Pass. Don’t you correct me, boy! Sarah Fitzgerald, Ella Baker, yeah. Nat Queen Coot. Franz Spinootruh. All a’ the greats. Kid.

But look, what am tryin’ to say is. See when you step out in the middle of the club? And you feel the eyes of every cunt’s girlfriend on you fresh? That’s when you know your shit’s good, regardless of the man tryin’ to panhandle a pinch of your craic. Be aware, and unafraid, to drop the cunt, at a second’s notice. Do for you, my brother. Let’s all have the craic.