You don’t text me now. No longer interested. I don’t cos I am.
all 3,509 of you and all the rest who come to this little pocket of the ether every day (or so). To those who don’t have Tumblr or hear about it from friends and those who send me emails and ask me questions and want help. To those who’ve given me guest slots and helped me really develop. To everyone else who’ll continue to be around for the growth of it all and every single...
Ello there. If you like my blog/think it’s worthwhile … I wouldn’t mind a little nomination with the Manchester Blog Award (any category is fine by me really) … you know … it’s still an award either way … http://www.manchesterblogawards.com/ thank you, you lovely lovely people.
Steady. Look into the camera. Do this with me. Hold your palms dig fingernails in, smile. Twist the lips to turn up-pronged, pointing to ears. White and yellow teeth a keymissing piano. Say cheese whistling between the gaps. Flash. Framed under a pile of clothes.
She misses her like rain in clammy July how on that cliff they watched a sunset burn up the clouds, skyscraper mounds: a city, blowing west. They talked lives—both their own and shared. Bottled secrets, thrown to toss and turn on waves, forgotten for a while. Watched the day fade out then black the sea swept up and down the cliff. She thought how they erode; the house would not stand...
maxichimaxi asked: What poem?
ziggee-deactivated20120922 asked: How do I submit poems to you?
respirare asked: that poem was beautiful..
Fifty-six when his father died, last-gasped in a stale white bed with half a bunch of grapes for company. Fifty-six when the woman with blackened eyes who couldn’t talk anymore, or breathe, from smoking still clung to life whilst his father disappeared. Fifty-six when his father slip-dropped out of life, his bone-pale finger still circled by wedding silver, eyes shut-clamped and dry. ...
Personal Blog →
freshgypsy-deactivated20120406 asked: Ceramic Bones deserves more than a "like" honey. LOVED it! You are a great writer. xoxo
Our ceramic plate broke, y’know the one, the one his mother presented: tears dripping through the orange-thick mask of her face. Mouth: agape and glowing more than us on our wedding day. The present rattled before we opened it. Smiled, thanked her for the lovely gift. Said, It will make a brilliant centrepiece. And it did, at first as a place to keep our fruit then later as I threw it...
gorilla-manor asked: I agree with Anon, and more.
Anonymous asked: Hello, I've been reading somethingeveryday for a few months now and wanted to let you know that I think your work is really very special. Aside from the blog being a good concept in itself, it's commendable and, I would say, a mark of your worth as a writer, that you've managed to keep the content so frequent and still consistent in its quality.
It seems like...
It seems like...
Make Me Write!
Righto who wants me to write a poem? Here’s a chance for you to give me something to write about. If you actually want me to write you a poem for you to own and you to use as and how you like (as long as I’m always credited as the author) then you’ll have to pay, just give me a shout on email@example.com. Otherwise just ‘answer’ this post with writing...
I feel like I should have a blog that’s separate to the poetry so that I can actually waffle on about me and not interrrupt the nice poem-every-post thang I got going here. Unfortunatley as much as I might be able to design websites for people I can’t figure out how I’d like to do it (e.g. have two tumblr sewn together or what …). So I’ll keep it here for now...
esprit-radieux asked: lovely :)
History overflows in this house: gushing from between books where strangers’ thumbs bent the pages. Under unwashed pillows it seeps from dreams and clings in the mould that sleeping bodies made. In the nooks, the slots between slats, under mattresses half-collapsed, seedlings grow, twist, stretch. Impervious they still remember the conversations screams and cries. In this room...
hakly asked: Major props! Keep doing what your doing, its wonderful.
To the anonymous who asked whether these writings are all mine the answer is yes. I accidentally deleted the message so thought I’d address it here. Everything on this website is mine unless stated otherwise (such as the drawings which are credited when need be). The whole emphasis of this website is to re-engage people with poetry on a daily basis. It is also a discipline, a way to...
deuscain asked: Your writings are wonderful.
Do you remember that time when we weren’t friends I mean, we were, but not like usual not like love. You had a boyfriend and we met, four months after we split, as old lovers me, smoking you talking kind words. We saw how we’d grown apart and together how we had shed our faults. You rubbed my leg with your knee. That night we fucked thoughtlessly but the hands, ...
Somewhere, it’s a little girl’s birthday and she’s holding a balloon with just her little finger, wrapped around pig-tail curled. Her mother’s smiling because the girl’s jumping up and down grinning at her present the little pile of plastic toys. They used to be her brother’s she doesn’t know that. She starts to play with them: a train that’s lost a wheel; an aeroplane without its...
Lonely Hearts United
Here, in this city right now you are one of thousands or maybe thirty, forty perhaps in this multitude of souls you exist within hundreds. In all these empty seats where people sat and still the heat travels through to me. The impressions of breath on glass and the stroke of greasy hands as they traced “I love you” with a smiley face, two boggly eyes. In the prints on bus bells ...
“I wish that every day could be like tonight. That my bed could be as comfortable warm and two-manned as yours. And in the morning I’d wake and you would be here morning breath and all kissing my nose, cheek, chin, with your hand wrapped around my bum, glory-strung throbbed and warm. <3 :) xxx”
Instead of Cleaning I Wrote This
I have never been good at tidying or picking up my laundry, naked-left by my bed, or kitchen, lounge. Slipped off when lights go dim and people leave to their quilts. My father passed on the trait of leaving socks, kicked off with the toe, flicked, then to bed: left in the living room for the dog to eat. From my mother, tissues her reason: allergies; mine, unsavouries. The dog would dive...
Girl Aged Eighteen
My father calls me a slut because of the clothes I wear. Secretly it’s something else; security cracked to a fragile doll in a place in his past where no one can go. Here, in the present he vents what he will never say aloud to his father, what he would not allow himself to sound: how his dad would beat his mother, drunk. He thinks I don’t know. We all know, somehow. He deals with...
Porn Does Not Make A Haiku
Social skills are hard to forge when all you think about is porn, porn, porn.
Publications, Facebook, Plans
somethingeveryday.co.uk Just a quick thing to say … I plan on majorly upheaving the website sometime soon and perhaps moving it over to a wordpress-fired site (or at least having both the tumblr and wordpress synced) for numerous reasons social and technical. I’m getting bored of the current theme so I’ll redesign that as well … when I have time. I’ve been told...
Me! I’m going to take a few days to lie in bed and contemplate my increasing age. Or you know, read. xx p.s. I’m twenty-one.
In amongst all this packaging I can feel you. The rip and tear of cardboard like how you removed my clothes. From the blue lines, the scrawled words, addressed to me I can trace your fingernibs and unpluck your prints. Touching the rough unstuck gum I can kiss you still.
A Holiday From Dignitytown
A holiday from dignitytown where dream and nightmare (re)side by side. Across a sea of tents the drunk and weary hang five-days out of their arses spit smoking rollies rolled between mudclung thumbs. Theatrical show things bubbling storyteller dreams, except here they’re true: Port-a-loo true like chainmail man and gold pouch-poser, hung, donkey hung, unshamedly thrusting as naked night...
The Measure of Me and You
I wonder how much time I’ve wasted spent thinking merrygoround thoughts; how many equations I could’ve solved trying to answer yours; how much of me I’ve lost, and gained because of loss; how many mes I’ve been faces worn behind faking masks; how much sleep collected in an hourglass you hold; how many things I’ve yelled that you’ll never hear; how...
Once Upon a Life
Once upon a life in a fairytale of neverwhen Time forgets and forgives second chances are made infinite and all lost paths mended, we exist together you and I. Here time lines don’t exist and space is a thing you can bend just a wish away from hope, blink, here, pressed up lipped, staring through closed sleepy eyes.