A fumbling bee one day went buzzing. Stung a youngster as God desired it. The vinegar was fetched with bikes left behind in the shadow of Sunday trees. Sun was always on the weekend. We climbed trees while they played ball, never liked playing in goals. Always against an old blue shed they banged it, the rowdy lads who were quicker with quips. And my older brother, who never had patience for the flapping wee body that I had. He was my hero then, right up until big school. We climbed trees and built huts. And dug up old glass jars from God knows when. There were fields and there were hedges and there was endless exploration. We liked to talk a little deeper.

It seems to me that you can sell
Your soul and smile and tap the well
Whose sickly sap is hoarded keen
And feed the blood-run bean machine

The punters pace and stutter up
Hoping a drip will grace their cup
But it don’t come cheap, sweet buttercup
The time has come for growing up

Can you rake the yield of last year’s smiles
And fake your way up sickly aisles
Can you bear to grimace, fair and true
Whilst the child inside you cries ‘untrue!’

It’ll fetch a price, but not just yet
You’ve got to learn to market it
A burden further on your back
Grow up, take it easy, cut yourself some slack

You’ve grown up late, is the only thing
Words like Jaded take on meaning
And you see it’s only life is all
What of the gift? Shield it? At all costs?


I wanna write a little for the brethren. The sufferers. The sufferees. The suffragettes? Tis a weird one, to be clanged with the life-altering hospitalisation. Yeknow the one where you seen the inner-outer bits of reality, revelations, and the whole thing just changes. Then they fill ye full of medication that unadjustably alters your sleeping and living pattern. Gain a few stone, wake up every day depressed for two hours, need to eat but you’ve no motivation. You might end up in a hostel, you might end up alienating your entire family. You might end up in trouble with the law. I think a lot of people make it out you know. You might eek on out after some sensible lifestyle choices. You’re to all appearances a regular everyday ordinarily operating person. Then you get a family. You get a job, of sorts. People always ask, what are ye working at. Kind of hard to put it across, to some uncle, at a funeral. And they advise you to lie, ‘Yeah I’m CEO of a small but ambitious tech company up the road there. Aye. Yeah, DeckTech.’ But that kind of lying on the fly is hard too, especially to hardy old manly uncles who’ve a better winced-eye on the finer matters in life. Probably if you started into some mad conversation about shamans though they’d be freaked out, and they’d be the ones feelin’ uneasy.

But yeah aside from all the shit, the only thing that’s hard is passing yourself off as a normal person, or at least having the same expectations foisted upon you; only wanting, and probably attempting, to complain of your endless ailments at every given opportunity. It’s fuckin’ hard, and other people probably find you annoying as fuck. But what can you do. And then they shame you saying well yeknow we all have our troubles. I don’t know, probably true. And even when it comes to this, there’s a lot to be grateful for. But mainly I think, the danger lies in never really complaining.

-You, my friend. Are a horse’s arse.
-Aha! But you see, you! You are nothing but a swindler’s kitchen!
-And what’s that supposed to mean exactly?
-Mean’s you’re fuckin’ stupid, ye horse’s arse.

——————————————————————————————-

-All you’ve got in this life. Are your auntie’s fuckin’ knickers. Ye goose. Ye’ve not even a snatter up your nose. Ye wee fried spud. Ye saucepan lid.

-Well ye see you. You’re like a wee bitta grease  hangin’ off the edge of that saucepan. Like a tiny wee thing clingin’, tryin’ just to cling in and have the craic, but ye don’t even belong. Cause the only place ye do belong, is in a bin. The greasebin for wee greaseballs like you.

-Is that right? Well let me tell ye this. I’ve had nightmares that haven’t come close to this, eh? See sittin’ in a room with you, is the stuff of nightmares. Try that on for size.

-Is that what way your wee psychic state is? Like all confused and troubled acause of somebody who’s imperfections cause ye to cringe inside and hurt? Have ye a wee bit of projection goin’ on there, mate? Eh? Haha. Losin’ it, so ye are.

-Look I’ll be completely honest with you here. I am more than a little attracted to you, and yes, this does trouble me. My head’s fuckin’ wrecked, to be honest like, but am not gonna fuckin’ show it.

-That’s good, wee love. A blow you a wee kiss look, wooooo. Love ye, wee love. Byyyyye.

—————————————————————————————————————-

Thank fuck that’s over with. Let’s get down to writing some serious shite. Like the time I blew up a balloon with me own farts. Or fell out of a big tree and failed to hit any branches on the way down. Trees are like banks in a way, aren’t they? They both have branches. Hahahahaha. There’s better ones than that… What about the time ye uh, fuck. I don’t know. Hang on.

Aye. The game. Have ye all played the game? What’s your favourite level? Yeah, mine too. Would ye say the game is a drug? Or like a drug? Hmmn, maybe, I dunno, could be persuaded like. Thing I hate about the game is ye don’t always win. And, like, how much work ye have to put in just to get to the bonus rounds. Sometimes I get confused and try and sell a shed fulla coal to some bai for a rune broadsword, like up the street on a Saturday. Funny oul game. There’s all different versions too, the fame game, the shame game, blame game, that’s popular. I like that RPG craic, everybody workin’ as a team. Means if some man’s givin’ me hassle in an area I don’t like, I call in ma big mate who’ll sort him out, or at least advise me to steer clear of the fucker. So is Elon Musk the last boss or what? Look forward to facing Donald Trump. And then when ye’ve done all the rounds, you get called on to This is Your Life, and get to run the whole thing back. Feels a bit fake all that tv stuff, but I suppose that’s part of the game too, sometimes.

Frequently fluent flyby birds squawking like pickled pigs porcupine needle on the record groove groove groove. There’s some jazz. Scrambled pegs all a-clippin’ on your washboard scrub. Tinkle down your livery and let me know how squelch the liver is this fine winter’s eve. Quack quack said fiddlesticks tyrannising the whole booth whilst all the time poor Betty was trying to make a call to her dead grandfather. The séance was broken on a whim, when fiddlestix Major decided to break wind at an opportune moment, creasing the glass panels with laughter till their shape was altered unadjustabley. Well well it’s a wonderful day all the way anyway any how any which whey you look at it. Big Louis’ blowin’ an’ the whole place bops. Even the neighbour nextdoor is lifting his trouser legs just a little so his ankles have the freedom to express themselves as they did in the long ago eons of Scotsman pole flunking and sword-dallying. A merry man is he this night. Chicken hula hoop meringue lemon cypress groove a minute minute means very little when you’re tracing time with the lilt of a negro. Well the net is fucked, but that is all and well. Now is the time for writing!

She stood before me on the bus. I could smell her essence, it riled, roused something in me. I wanted to grab her by the hair and sink my teeth deep into the delicate nape of her neck. I wanted to grab her buttocks, those wide shapely hips. Men should be allowed to do these things. The animal in man is restrained these days. And maybe that’s not an entirely good thing. I’d love to have that freedom. But it creeps up on me somely one two three times usually in public with a girl I don’t recognise but for the fact her essence is calling something deep within me to grab out. But I’m a musician. That’s my trade. And that’s what draws the girls in, when they see the performer. Into a dream phantasy reverie of golden future thoughts, serenading by the river under some weeping tree that weeps of joy and summertime solace in the wild. Perhaps one day, if things carry on as they are, what with the woman situation, I’ll be the one that’s grabbed. Woman-handled. They’ll rip the flesh from my bones just to get a taste of that dream someplace in the cold reality concrete officeblocks and full to the limit 5 in the evening bustrips. Maybe it’s this cold horrible life we’re leading against nature that draws up a resistance instantly where some slice of the real earth man’s life might be glimpsed. Long live the farmers. I’m going to the bar now, full of pregabalin, notepad and pen in pocket, plenty of time to sip and observe before I take the stage and unleash everything that’s been crying out for release. Hopefully. You never know how these things might go. At any rate, a wee drink will calm my bursting head. I’m dressed in tight brown cords and the new tag still on it shirt that I nabbed today for four pounds a bargain. Yes, I am colour co-ordinated, and ready to schmooze. Talk jazz with the French. That’s a language we can all understand. A silly blue bag I’ll have to carry this all in, unless I find a suitable other. Won’t be long till these pills kick in. Mother had a dream some months back warning me off them. Proved prophetic as the beating that was meted out to me the other night shows. Tonight I’ll ride safely, embursed in my comort bubble. Lively chat and great colourful jazz writing. Let’s do IT.

Everything that I’d like to say tonight must be digitally imprinted via fingerprint immaculacy to the megastack. The big paragraph that can’t be read and ridiculed by every other fucker besides me with a computer. The initial temptation takes hold and I get a social media vulnerability voodoo-doll all sewn and knitted, awaiting only that big button click. Luckily some last gasp instinct saves me from the dead-giveaway bokepost, and I instead turn to this little documentation station. See, here, thoughts are considered, carefully, and imprinted audibly somehow with permanence unaltered. It’s a foolhardy stew at first whiff and the punters run. But the one or two inquisitive, like-minded, warp-minded, small-minded ego-freaks sniff something that speaks to them, and so we gather to piss in our pots, and pass around for the sniff. Yes, that’s two sniffs now and count ’em three, but we must relax if all of this is to be extracted. Right, I’m gonna do that thing where I talk like a farmer. Cringe later, love you.

Clapton. On a big fuckin stage. There goes Eric Clapton. Did ye ever see him playin’ guitar? Naw, he’s deadly. The Catholic Church were opposed to his early efforts through no fault of his own, ’twas the piggish brits called him God. So, they got in touch with Peter Green’s ma, and had a sacred ordination or somethin’, on his hands, and he came along one cut later with a new thing. Not altogether better, just a bit different. But see, the religious duties imposed on poor Greeny drove him to distraction; and after about five albums he forgot to cut his nails, then pawned his famous Lemondrop Les Paul to Gary Moore in a fit of quasi-pious magnanimity. Just kinda lost it. The good die young. But! the religious question is indeed a most pertinent one when you consider the endeavours of our EC. I mean the man has stood the test of time, no doubtin’ it. And every other sainted singer payin’ the cost unnoticed. Like it must take a toll. Or maybe they just have the life of it. They say Coltrane was a saint, preacher man. But who’s to say that the sacred high-held jazz bais aren’t somewhat comparable to the humble street singer, in a funny kind of way? It’s not very hip anyway, any of this craic, is it? Like nobody goes partyin’ to a mass. I’ve got a feeling though, (disagree most seethingly if you please) a feeling that, in spite of themselves, some of the most God-denouncing Erudites are actually invisible priests. I dunno, probably they do know it of course and just put it on for a joke. Dawkins. Dishcloth faced fucker. No time for him. Gervais. A genius! What the hell happened him? An extraordinarily short-lived peak. Rippin. The American Office. Not for me. Ah well. Think we’re just about done, let’s see…


Ye know what’s a funny thing. You walk a horn. Take a walk stride head up immersed. Purpose is envelopment. Van Mo’ said Jazz is Zen. So rather than the theoretical groundwork and up, with life-duties affirming and no doubt informing, it’s a walk through the park self-neglected. At least a thought appears that suggests that this may indeed be the case, but this is only a temporary distraction from the wheels which are now visible. To see the lines, feel the swing. Suddenly, ‘do, not-do;’ the carousing wheels of inspired swing and immortality intended are opening before you. You haven’t felt this before. You’ve certainly never seen it, the sensation so physical. Ears open, the moment is yours, and you belong to the moment. Course you’re gonna cross a road and be sure to glance. And the coarsened city kids collect their conkers, sour pears. Harvest for the determined. Well. Who knows what’ll come of it. But wasn’t it pretty?

Drinking Den. Typical.

Underqualified Interloper – *in earnest.* Sheets of sound, mate, sheets of sound.

Father Figure in Hiding – *careless perfection* Aye. Sounds of shite.


(guffaws)


You are not likely, to run into a bedraggled working class codger, who will expound upon the miraculous delicacies spewed forth from Charlie Parker’s horn. It’s just not gonna happen like. He’ll be tellin’ ye about 10cc, Supertramp, thon boy with the flute, and other such shite. I mean I hate to be a dirty snob, and cast the considerable weight of my opinion upon these neglectees, but I just don’t have time for it. Probably five or six years from now I’ll repent all my sins and form a tribute band. But for now the band must be beaten, like fit to beat the band, or whatever. Every man up on their toes singing their very sins out for the redemption of mankind (non NI residents need not apply.) I mean we probably think there’s an audience out there for us, and there is, a miniscule band of thigh-slappin’ groin-grabbers. And they’re the ones who keep the whole thing in balance, your outlook that is, because no matter the mete of your mother’s slavery, and you the one who’ll inherit it, the whole thing’s one big joke. But here, now and then ye do get a deadly tune, or like somebody pure gets your shit, turns round and tells ye exactly why and it’s a feelin’ that rivals no doubt the dumping of ten trillion dollars in the bank account of a Bobtailed Bieber… Savouring moments. Hotshot flies by with his top down, teen wife topless as he laughs into the emptiness. They’re all fuckers man, but the tunes, and some of the people that are playin’ them, not so bad. Lovely wee people, few gnarled oul street savvies, hafta tuck back and gimp. But that’s aright, can’t win ‘em all. Life’s not the worst, get the tunes on.                                                                                                                                                                                               

But look, an alternate point of view should surely be voiced here, where’s the analytical practicalligator? Yes. In reality (which isn’t very interesting), any fellow voicing the above aspersions is surely a short-sighted fool, who would no doubt do well to consult a man, or woman(women are intelligent too, as we are finding;) yes, a person of the opposite disposition, thus completing the much vaunted yin yang, and taking a well-deserved kick in the egoic knackers for his trouble. Should he attempt to go one better and court the regard of some wise, guru-type character? It could be endless really. A gamer’s approach to winning at life. Seminars. Cash. In hand. Kay. If I wanna get paid tonight I’d better contact my financial adviser, see ya later.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

Afterthought   

Your phone is talking to you. When’s the last time you lost your phone? The notifications are raining in, and you’re not even a particularly popular person… Unless there’s some strange sewing circle where they worship your socks. Could be. Nobody wants to read about a sock. The stink from our socks are merely memories, traces of the day’s deeds, demons in need of bleaching. Men inhale the stink from their socks, in an unconscious attempt to rid their living space of evil spirits, their reward a pungent scent-present. But nobody, and this time I really mean nobody, wants to smell another man’s socks. The sock sniffer. For all of my sins I could never be called the sock sniffer. That is a title that belongs to one debauchee alone. Out there, sniffing socks. Goodnight.

Delaney

Some man sittin’ in his own piss blind
His mild exhalations…
A greaser from the coast, y’know?
Made his bones in seventy somethin’

Gnarled, his knuckles force a fist
And pissed in bliss he nods and fits
A wispin-stubb ‘tween leather lips
An’ shuffles the heft about his hips

Later he learned of an offshore cult
Whose only law he came to love
And disobey from time to time
Though the skin he was in did fit thon clime

And so the twilight years were passed
In sombre sunlight, blinked and basked
And asked more often than he answered
Seemed keen for the shabeen…

Ah, but sure he’s off again.


Pictures of Jesus

In the Rosey hours you’ll come to know
Of glimpsing ghouls who’ll glimmer glow
And titter wit from corners sparse
Then force the ignorance out your arse

In the Rosey hours there will be time
To speculate, vocate, and chime
To chitter with the one you hold
A fire lit to make you bold

In the Rosey hours you can do allsorts
Carouse, cartwheel with known cohorts
Gambol, pinata, pinochle, please
Kindly jibe, politely tease.

Say Cheese 😊


Hallions

One more for tha rhode. Hears wan fore da functionul. Figgity fourfinchmunch. Blasterpustpinchinwit. Five drip dives and a stink’s pontoon. Wash up at noontide, and give your mother’s blest.

Ciao.

Time for a bit of the ole spasmodic. Stevie Wonder’s playin’, he hasn’t a notion. And the fact that I’m welcome round the doors of The Longfellow is a wonder indeed. A young fellow is a good fellow when he plays a mean harp; and means also to share it about. Well-versed in weaving, bird-flight simulated a little, let the pack keep its shape whilst giving the whole thing a little pulsation. Visible traces, pulmonary in essence, a lifetime’s quintessence. Indeed, indeed. A good deed done is better than none, and a bad sausage battered may lead to the gun. So eat none, my son.

Big pile a craic that. Manowar kickin’ now. Yeah. Warriors of the world! Proper struttin’. This is nightwalking music. I invoke the Gods of unspoken intimidation. None shall eye me. Dugga-duh Dugga-duh Dugga-duh. Yeah, ye need a bitta that strut about ye, walking city streets in the dark. Don’t mess, fucker! I mean let’s be honest here, if it really came down to it ye’d take a good shoein. But the unshakable belief, nay, the sheer delusion, that it takes to take yourself off as a true hard man, that’s another thing in itself altogether. A similar thing when it’s daytime and the Sex Symbol archetype is invoked. Yes, every girl is looking your way. They’re laughing? It’s because they fancy you. A stolen glance here, a for-sure check-out there, aw yes. Still got it.

Just wee things you have to do sometimes, to keep yourself sane, or otherwise. Let’s do a wee poem.

There once was a man who played bass
Who told lies so expertly his face
Took on a faint shine
Yes he filled up his bines
With homegrown and liquorice lace

He worked his way through all of the bais
And looked for his comfort in toys
Though he sang fairly well
He couldn’t help but give hell
To the Department for Neighbourhood Noise

So they placed him up high on a hill
And allowed him a dosage of pills
If he’d just keep his peace
And co-opt with the p’lice
It weren’t long till his life lost its thrill

The man had lost all of his friends
And so his tale comes to an end
If you’re gonna play dice
Bai, ye’d better think twice
‘Cause on this shit your wee life depends xo

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.

Subservient comes the weak-willed wanderer
Witless he pits his pots and ponders. Plants a gram of half-boiled ham and vanishes.
There he goes now, watch him. Watch him go and gander, with a whistle the birdies titter and he minds nothing so it seems. Wears a wand the wanderer. Wears a woolly wand up his jumper, just in case. Join the chase.

Plunders now the witless one. Grabs a stash a sumthin an goes. Off goes he now nothing. Set off by such and such. Somebody said a something so they did. Now we’re all saying somethings or so it seems acause it’s spring so it is. Nice to get out for a bit and blunder, now that they pulled thon cunt out by the root. Rootless now we wander, yeah. Enjoy xo

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Grab a locka nettles and ponce. Grope a loaf in the aisles of a dream. Plant pigsnouts in the hope for homelessness. Offload a shoal of herring down the street there.

Whether you want to or not you’ll waffle, so you’d best make happy while the fine times shine. Waffle all happy while you’re whipping thon pan. Pay no heed to happy-snatchers. Theirs is a grey life that lacks all romance. Ensnared by their possessions with a cocksure sneer, no fear. All faff. Waffle on.