Superlative self

I don't hate you,
I don't envy you.
I know you worked for that, sweat for that, bled for that.
Burnt your lungs and dropped the contents of your stomach on the floor, countless times before.

The reflux hiccup leaves you crouching, but somehow you pick-up yourself from the floor...to go at it once more.

But I just can't look at you right now.
Selfish as it seems, it only reminds me of the gulf between you and me.
The superlative self I'll never be.

At least I see why you do it.
I'm not blind to the bare-faced honesty of your exhaustion.
When pretence can barely raise a smile, let alone a finger.
Win or lose - it's less confusing than the pantomime we're all forced to act.
Pleasant smiles painted on masks balanced precariously on grimaced cheekbones.
Mine dropped to my balls a long time ago.
A mocking crotch grinning up at me.

It's hard to find conceit at 3am when you're staring at the ceiling drenched in your skin.

They're one step closer to the superlative self.

I'm one step further back staring blankly on the shelf.

Ever On, Ever More

The ambient light warms dull ink on this page.
Speak softly affections fired in careless rage.
No thought need to enter; just act on as before.
A petulent heart ever on, ever more.

I plundered my youth and spent all of its gold
for thundering seconds leaving hours so cold.
Alone is an art form, which bests sculpts from old souls.
So please close the door, ever on, ever more.

It's true I bore easy
of familiar scenes.
What blinds me when distant
close up barely gleams.
The thrill of the chase makes constant demands,
But all warmth drains so quickly when placed in these hands.


Metal Monkey: Running to Stand Still

Always the Bridesmaid

Man, I'm knackered. I was at my mate's sister's wedding last night til about 1am then up at 8am this morning to man a volunteer stall and I've only just finished clearing out the garage (on my mother's subtle request). A shower, a cuppa and a melatonin await methinks!


To be fair though, it has been an entertaining and rewarding 24 hours. Cordially invited to a wedding reception on the exclusive grounds of Mere Golf Club (where even muttering the words 'pitch n putt' in jest will result in an instantaneous blackballing) I spent my evening drinking expensive Kaliber, dodging a demanding ten-year old who'd found the two people closest to his own mental age, outdancing everyone to Madge's finest and waiting for my mate to chat to his new sister-in-law, whom he fancies but finds it morally unforgivable to ask out based on the fact that they are now related. Despite Darwin and I both assuring him of the biological fitness of any progeny born of this union, he was unflappable. I think he should've considered it. I sat on my tod, like Wilhelm fekking Keinfreunden, for at least half an hour to give him time to talk to her on his own. It's a gentlemen's agreement. Ciaran described my act as 'Above and Beyond', especially if he wasn't going to get anywhere. The fact he wasn't going to get anywhere of his own volition was particularly frustrating. But what can you do: he boy's not for plucking.

Bleary-eyed and cursing myself for agreeing to be good on a Saturday I schlepped over to nearby Timperley to help out a fellow volunteer run a stall at a local fete. Any thoughts of sleep were soon shaded out by a blue sky, plenty of interested locals and photo opportunities of the mayor and papier-mache-headed northern monkey Frank Sidebottom. Like the media whore I am I filled the vacant spot in each photo left by my camera-shy colleague. Now I just need to get my picture in the paper. Anyone have Matt or Luke Goss's number?

Finally I came home around 4 to start clearing out the garage. Well, clearing it out enough to fit the car in when winter comes. 6 hours that took me. I could have left it until tomorrow, but I want to go to a local farm for a harvest festival. Even if I don't make that I'd like a day off. Sometimes dear old mother doesn't understand this concept as much as I'd like. She'd ideally like me to drive her up Cumbria to see my uncle next Saturday morning despite the fact that I'm volunteering on another stall all day Sunday. I'm putting my foot down. The guy didn't see anyone for 18 years, so breaking the 3-week visiting schedule isn't going to be a body blow. I was up there last week with my friend's for Christ sake!

I try not to snap at mum, I really do, and I wouldn't if she didn't try to get a little jibe in every now and then. Doing stuff for your mum isn't a problem, but it's when they pick at the little thing you didn't do, well that tends to drain the humanity from my expression and pump the venom to my tongue. I'm learning to ignore it - observing duck's backs and all that lark - but the schooling is slow. Natural state sees my heart quick to pound and venom course sharply to my tongue.

But I see such education as the entrance exam for a higher institution. Namely, marriage.

Metal Monkey: Has a temper like your jealousy; when the night is so black that the darkness cooks.

New Human

I was reading an article in the last print issue of The Ecologist, which pointed out that personal happiness and well-being is being overlooked as a key factor in our species' continuing survival. Unfulfillment plays a silent hand in driving us to over-consume in a vain search for that quick, temporary fix. As we look to remedy the mistakes of the past one question remains that is barely uttered: even if we can stop climate change, will it make a lasting difference if we as a species do not change the way we interact with nature?

No technological remedy is going to realign our perception of where we stand in the global ecosystem compared with where we are actually placed: a few steps down. Sometimes the measures we take in our homes are too disjointed from their ultimate purpose to drive their importance into the hearts and minds of the majority. For example, most of us recycle, but will that prompt you to only buy goods with the minimum of packaging? Possibly. Now will you go as far as growing your own vegetables or go foraging in your local forest? Less of a chance of that.

However, the point of recycling is to save on raw materials, water, energy and waste - exactly what happens when you take more control of your own food production, with the emphasis on the word 'control'. That feeling of greater self-reliance and achievement brings a fulfillment that I've never found with throwing something in the green bin. Yes it takes more time, and yes it requires more effort, but feeling a sense of belonging to the natural environment gives you a warm, lasting glow that no DVD splurge can ever match.

It is this strain of happiness that promotes a greater sense of ownership towards our world and a diminished desire to cause it harm. Action alone can take us to the brink of a better tomorrow, but unless we want to live in it - with all the opportunities and challenges it entails - I fear that the true chance for a sustainable future will have slipped through our grasp.

Metal Monkey: tree hugging with a Snakebite & Black.

Phoenix Night

I know I've previously mentioned - albeit in passing - that special place in my fundus I hold for the city of my spawning: Bradford, West Yorks. It's the home of the curry, hills and disused cotton mills. It's dialect is replete with t', ayes, neys and owts, and vowels are stretched to their elastic limit. Here there is no such thing as the Yorkshire rose, only the 'rerse o' Yor'shire'.

But my filial duty required suspending all prejudices as I schlepped me and my mother up to this begotten place for her friend's 50th. My mum doesn't get out all that much, what with a dog who she treats like a second hairy son and an inability to drive long distances for medical reasons. She and my dad went over to Cumbria for a few days last week, and when she came back she looked relaxed and radiant. I wasn't at all surprised to see how the break had refreshed her because God knows she needs to get out more, although it was a bloody miracle that this state had been achieved with dad in tow.

So with that change fixed in my head I knew she had to attend this event. An hour's happy motoring up the M62 et al and we arrived at Clayton Golf Club, which is perched off a small track outside the city. From the outside it looked like the Phoenix Club; on the inside no different. The entrance to the bar was lined with previous club dignitaries, each in jacket and tie. Some were lit in soft lighting, so I guess they were around in the 80s. In one shot, the guy's eyes seemed to be looking at opposite sides of the room simultaneously. God knows how he played golf. I imagine hours of frustration trying to drive the two balls down the two fairways his mal-binocular vision was picturing. As for driving, you'd hope he could afford a chauffeur.

We entered the main bar and walked into the Pennine Suite. There was a dancefloor; there were helium balloons and decorations; and the ceiling was textured like a perfect line of Tetris blocks. At terrific volume from the left could be heard the Michael Jackson mega mix, comprising 20 straight minutes of the King of Pop's hits remixed by a tone-deaf DJ from the 80s. In fact, I think said DJ was our DJ, only a lobotomised version.

Being the sociable butterflies that we are, my mum and I opted for a corner table out of view from the dancefloor and offering a feeble sound barrier from the aural onslaught. The guests soon filed in and we were surrounded by strangers. We had to talk. Eek! Even more worrying for me was that the natural focal point for my slouched line of sight happened to rest on the low-cut neckline of a woman in her early 60s. I'm afraid she was losing the battle against gravity and my neck is aching slightly from the 2-degree upward tilt it had to adopt to avoid staring into the abyss. I know age affects us all, but there's a time when a different tact has to be taken to flatter the figure as the years roll by as our bodies roll down. Don't get me wrong: I'm no portrait picture so I don't mean to criticise, only observe. Mind you, that same woman commented to me mum that I was a handsome lad, as 'all these half-castes seem to be'. Her choice of terminology left a little to be desired, but as I'm not exactly inundated with flatterers I take what few compliments life chucks at me. My mate Pete, Keanu Reeves, Tia Carrere, Mylene Klass and me: we're all part of the Eurasian Good Look Club.

As the night wound on and the music progressively worsened I just sat and watched the proceedings like the sad fucker I am. It was heartening to see the birthday girl's 80 year-old aunty (not her real aunty, but she's called aunty. We are in the provinces, remember) up and dancing to Rhianna and the Lady Gaga. The DJ was still sat on his arse 2 hours after taking that position. Interjecting tracks with complaints about the lack of dancers, he steadfastly held on to his RnB set in firm opposition to the expectations of the predominantly middle-aged audience.

Soon enough though, it was time to head back home. I know I've probably sounded like a right snob during this post, but I didn't mind the venue, the food was good and you can't argue with pints under £2. Ultimately, however, the point was to give me mum a reason to glam up for a few hours and see her mate. Taking that into account, I can safely say that the night was a success!

Just have to find her some mates in more picturesque parts of Blighty.

Metal Monkey: finding grey hairs on his bonce since yesterday.

Train Operator

Sade's 80s classic to capture the frustration of the average British commuter.

To lighten the mood.

Train Operator

Fallen leaf
on the track.
I'm growing impatient at Waterloo station.
I've got to get back.

I'm freezing cold
and the paper's shite.
The front page reads like TV Quick magazine.
Who writes for the Lite?

My dinner is cold and my partner's annoyed.
I was supposed to be home spending time with our boy.
Now what is this drone I hear over the tannoy?

No need to ask, it's the Train Operator.
Train Operator x 3

Coast to coast, Llandudno to Scarborough.
British Rail.
North to Abroath then south down to Dartmouth.
Seats for sale.

The train arrives
an hour late.
Civilities fall as we dash for the platform.
Patience can wait.

No place for beginners or sensitive hearts.
"Excuse me, that's my seat", you cheeky bas-tard.
I've barely sat down, now who wants my railcard?

No need to ask it's the Train Operator.
Train Operator x 3.

Made to stand and packed in like cargo;
who would pay
4 quid for kitkats and coffee that tastes like charcoal?
Where do I complain...

...to the Train Operator?

Metal Monkey: Hanging on to his love since 198-Johnny-5.

Sweet demise

The heart thunders, roars.
Crashes. Pounding with nervous ecstasy. A titanic force
urging a solar plexus explosion - solar plexplosion.
All that you gifted me I cannot contain.
All that we both have is now yours.