1. Beneath The Veil

Beneath the veil of a steel cut sky,
Where all creatures great and small,
Follow a path, never asking why,
Through an iron tunnel, an endless hall,

A pre-determined route, what a great lie! 
Just like ashes, blowing in the wind, unable to fall, 
Lost little lambs, determined to try, 
For silicon words, fossil writing on the wall,

Blood-stained soil, forever they cry,
But preferring the looking glass, to His beck and call,
A virtual construct, sky in the pie,
Duped, many masses, believing it all,

Unsettled world, with such blinded eyes,
Beneath the veil of a steel-cut sky,
Who knows when, if they'll ever realise? 
Maintaining that route, never pondering why. 


2. The Year Elvis Died

It was the year that Elvis died,
Or so she always reminded him,
Her face, narrow, grey and thin,
That her baby had first cried,

A beautiful little boy, he was,
Gentle and happy, so they say,
But had seizures everyday,
Epileptic fits, and all because...

His father named him Wayne,
But so mistaken he had been,
Perhaps a little too over-keen,
He fled before all of the pain,

Left at six, him and the other,
But for the best? Not so to mother,


3. The Paperboy (Part One)

She woke him up as always, the alarm went at six,
Quickly throwing on his clothes 
and out through the front door,
The winters bite, nipped his puppy-fat cheeks,
As he grabbed his bike, he'd owned only weeks,
And that shocking orange paper bag, 
that lay on the shed floor,
Wasn't all bad though, 
he'd get loads of christmas tips,

The bully on the corner 
always bullied him so well,
A ginger tosser with freckles, 
knew exactly what to do,
And so he pinched his bike 
after butting the poor boy,
But the paperboy grew tall 
and then the bully became 'his' toy,
The ginger tossers freckles, 
ripped from him, two by two,
The bully now became his bitch, 
his arse for 'him' to sell,


4. The Paperboy (Part Two)

So the cycle continued, 
throughout those teenage years,
The bullies fell down one by one, 
extinguishing his fears,
But in the morning-always-
his mother still would rant,
A constant nagging, ear-ache moan, 
worse than any aunt,
Till sixteen years had been and gone, 
he packed his bag and went,
All the bitter moaning, 
slagging parents, feelings spent.


5. Yellow Matter Custard

Lennon strikes an iconic pose, 
Fag in hand, above the fireplace, 
Set in a black and white tomb,
Gazing down on the yellow matter custard, 
Dripping from this dead dogs eye,
Lay face down, dreaming of the sky, 
A place far away somewhere in the sun, out of this room,
Watching the table, with its lion feet, 
Dancing across the floor, and the ceramic faces, 
All of which cry,

The Royal Doulton, shows his reflection, 
Distorted, one eye open, 
But out of place, jumbled up face,
Wretching, scrapes the back of his throat, 
With razor-like slicing, 
The watery taste of munchies he ate,
A sudden slip down from his knees, 
Leaves him staring at the ceiling, 
Wildly, to some-a disgrace,
Stomach churning, grasping knots within, 
Tearing them out in large fleshy chunks, 
What a state,

When he awakes, the room seems much smaller, 
A cubicle, a box, a rat in a box, 
Horrible wretch,
Staggering, into the lounge once more, 
Lennon staring with a scowl, 
'Fuck off John-you did worse!'
The chair that he sits in doesn't seem as big 
As last night, till later he thought, 
The stuff  'he'll' fetch,
He picked up a pen and began to hum a tune, 
Strummed his guitar then attempted to write a verse,

But who was he kidding? 
Nothing but a down and out, 
Misspent youth, a yob, a lout,
He threw down the guitar, and rolled up a joint, 
No fricking future, no fucking point.


6. Sweaty Drink-fuelled Folk

And so walked the girl 
on a cloud of purple smoke,
Through the stench ridden smog 
of sweaty, drink-fuelled folk,
Homing in on my position in the crowd
-the music booming loud,
Too beautiful for someone like me, 
I thought it was a joke,

With lemon curd skin, 
and her furry blue shoes,
She had the kind of body 
that would make you woo!
A bird for ones arm, 
I'm sure my father would've been proud,
I went in for the kill, 
why not, what had I got to lose?

With her brown curly locks, 
and her blue sequin dress,
Eyes like emeralds, 
with speed-oh how they bowed,
She whispered something in my ear, 
I felt her wet lips press,
Then she took me by the hand, 
I guess I had impressed, 

And so, off we went, into the night
- a drug-induced delight, 
The pattern followed till out of sight, 
but back then it felt so right. 


7. Sister

Me and my sister, never really got on,
Always a grass, the duplicate mum,
The earliest memories of her that I'd had,
Were of her telling mum, how her son had been bad,

Surely not cut from the same piece of cloth,
A nastier sod, who resembled a sloth,
Always reporting, and dobbing me in,
But in the end, it was me who would win,

I never liked her, there was nothing at all,
Nothing of salt behind her dull grey eyeballs,
Sometimes I'd wish that she'd just disappear,
Instead of her nagging and bending my ear,

I look at her though, 
now all skin and bone,
And at thirty years old, 
still living at home.


8. Diamond White Nights

Every friday night, 
they all would gather there, in the park,
'A bottle of Diamond White, please sir'
-the order of the day, 
Then sit upon a bench, 
and get pissed until way past dark,
Chatting up the girls that passed, 
in that 'normal' scally way,

It wouldn't take much 
to get 'em drunk, just a couple of cans,
All joining in and acting 'hard' 
swigging the booze, so cool cats, 
Then roll up sleeves and watch 'em go, 
fighting with bare hands,
Throwing insults back and forth, 
slagging mums, filthy little twats,

And then the time would come 
to make the moves on a gorgeous, bird,  
Sally Louise, she'd bend on her knees, 
or so they'd all once heard,
She'd given James Hollow a hand-job, 
behind the old stately home,
Maybe for them she would swallow, 
or go back to hers all alone?

Friday nights in that timeless old park, 
were always so much fun back then,
Carefree, unrestricted, 
wild and crazy nights, 
when the boys would imitate men,


9. Send It To Africa!

She sat there knitting, 
only twenty-seven, 
But knitting nonetheless,
What was going on in her mind? I dunno. 
She seemed so blind, 
such a sorry mess,
I can't remember the terms she used, 
Always difficult to recall, 
so young I was back then,
Playing with my toys 
on the well-worn cord carpet, 
But also watching her, impressed,
Impressed on me her sadness, 
Those lonely grey eyes, 
to me they would one day stem,
Another stitch in the bag, 
A crappy jumper, an uncool rag, 
I ain't gonna dress, 
There's no chance your depressing hobby 
Is gonna impair all my happiness,
So don't knit for me no more, 
send it to Africa, 
I don't want it, send it to them!


10. Tears In The Night

How many times did I watch you cry, 
a fool for his love that never was? 
Dragged out of bed, 
throwing on my clothes, 
that lay there ready waiting for school, 

To the endless out-pouring, 
the sound of anger roaring at a slammed door, 
Tears streamed, 
I took note from your, 
crystal blue eyes, as you buttoned up my coat, 

I wanted to cry for you, 
my friend in need, but I didn't understand, 
We walked out into the night, 
the air chipping my cheeks, 
like birds peck at feed, 

Glancing back, the house lit up 
against the brightest moon, I had ever seen, 
What did this all mean? 
Mum shut the door, 
finality echoed, the lock sealed, 

I asked her; 'Where are we going?', 
she had no words, I didn't  understand, 
Innocent, and too young to grasp 
the meaning of what 
shattered love could hand,

So we'd staggered, uncertain, 
into a future which we couldn't ignore, 
And I never saw that 
smile in quite the same way, 
as I used to, once before,   

Something had been taken 
from her that night, 
a light  extinguished, 
blown out, gone,  
Never returned, lost, 
like so many millions 
of little things in life, 
And so it was, 
that I never would get to see, 
those millions of things,
They would continue to remain her secret, 
always hidden, within. 


11. Careers Advice  

'So what is it you want to be, 
when you grow up lad?' 
'I'd like to be a police man sir, 
its always been my desire'
'Ha! A copper! You're far too small, 
not for you my lad' 
'But Sir, I know I'd be good at it,
I'm honest, I ain't no liar,'

'You're far too small, and mess about, 
don't you see that lad?'
'But Sir, my Uncle Charlie's fat, 
and he's a copper in Belfast'
'I'm sorry that's beside the point, 
you ain't cut out my lad?'
'But Sir, I'm fit and up for it, 
in sports I'm never last,'

'I'm sorry son, it ain't much fun, 
you'll find something lad',
'But Sir, I've told you many times, 
I'd like to do this job',
'You ain't cut out to do it son, 
its not for you my lad'
'Who are you to judge me, 
you cheeky, arse-faced knob!'

'There you go, point proven, 
you'll never do nowt lad'
'Don't you ever call me lad, 
you ain't my bloody Dad!'


12. Winter Night

A thick blanket, dull, bland, and white,
Reaching out, then stretching so far,
Covers the tops of town roofs at night,
Beneath the smallest, distant star,

The robin pecks for food all alone,
Hopping about, there in the snow,
The tree's all bare, with no skin-only bone,
Free of the warmth of summer's glow,

A rare blue moon, lights up the night,
The bite of the frost comes alive,
My complexion gone from pink through to white,
Whilst waiting here for you to arrive,

Such frosty winters to be spent alone,
Colder though still, when spent on ones own,