Girls and Stairs

Punishment and rehabilitation.

I was once young and stupid, now I'm just old and in possession of a guilty and remorseful conscience. I regret myself and the desolated thoughts that terrorise me night and day. I commit myself to disappointment.

I have done some terrible things, I make no excuses.

I am odd.

I do hate.

I desire hope.

I feel anger.

I have dreams.

I need love.

I want Sadness.

I wish for happiness.

I presume kindness.

My negative drivel, theories and offensive ignorance are stubborn and unattractive. I am small, I am boring, I am not worth communicating with, and my opinions are shit. I am shit. Fuck my unintelligent little being and me. My constant intrusive, short-tempered arrogant guard is weak.

I have done some terrible things, I make no excuses.

I am odd.

I do hate.

I desire hope.

I feel anger.

I have dreams.

I need love.

I want sadness.

I wish for happiness.

I presume kindness.

I am a dreadful addictive consumption. I make day's drag and weeks fly. I ruin the good and encourage the bad. I ignore the accessible love card and wreck its stability. I digest contaminated hatred and regurgitate worlds of love. Who do I benefiit, what do I give back?

I have done some terrible things, I make no excuses.

Words have been said.......

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South London turns heads and corners

Like so many parts of London, one can amble along a leafy, quiet avenue, cruising past expensive cars and nice houses. Large plants and six-by-four-foot red paintings in the window, happy families dining together. School satchels and obedient dogs resting in the hall­way.

Only to then turn a corner into desolate, depressing, under-developed and perhaps drink- and drug-riddled areas within seconds. The lazy tagging supporting a bus stop or tower block stairway and lift. The empty local chicken boxes and beer cans furnish the gutter. The smell of Skunkweed protruding from a dark alley. In sotto voce the blatant advertising of various supplies and wares of dealers.

The polarisation of one street to the next can be incredible. Within seconds a mood and political view can change. Some people protest, some fight, some kick back and watch, and some are oblivious.

It’s tough identifying which Brixton street falls into which of these sense of belongings.

The estates, the buildings, the streets, the parks, the schools, the libraries and the people all make a community and, in Brixton’s case, a very colourful and multicultural one.

It’s difficult working out who’s actually looking out for whom. Ulterior motives are ripe round here.

Having lived in South London for almost fifteen years. I've seen it change, some areas more dramatically than others.

Railton Road is a good place to start. Linking Herne Hill to Brixton in one road, it has through the years seen much of what has made Brixton the place it is today.

From squatters to riots, political unease to the Black Panther movement, gay activism to race identity problems, radical bookshops to Pentecostal churches. All of which are not necessarily connected, but as a whole are the binding of our community. The joining and creation of a diverse community; history made.

It's dark and bright. It's soul destroying and refreshing. It's home, and abroad. It's black, and white. It's mine, it’s yours!

The Troubled Soul

The troubled soul beneath the sad, the lost, but the stunning eyes, looking for true answers in the dark scudding sky.
The false smile, the pretend laugh and haunted vile dreams.
Abandoning hope is of course an option, flick it away like an unwelcome fly.
If only I could scratch away your pain and anger; like an itch can be resolved in a moment.
I know how it is to simply walk, or rather scuff along; a rugby scrum with black angels.
Blood red demons, and their perpetual screaming, from every available corner, from every hollow chamber of filth.
Stone steps, padded walls, high, unreachable windows. Panic stricken, manic anxiety and utter depression.
I can see how cold it is for you, despite the sweating out of scolding hatred.
Close those wonderful eyes;
take a long, deep breath,
be comforted by the thought,


the uplifting feeling,
that there could well be a light,
at the end of your suicide.

Street and people

London. Paris. Madrid. Dublin. Brighton

Lost my way from comfort

The slosh of the bottle, the clink of the glass;
the meeting of age old friends.
Our eyes rove the meandering, the rolling and the enchanting setting, from the creaking and rustic veranda.
We soak in the trees as they become silhouetted against a retreating orange sun.
The sounds of the day become the hum of the dusk.
What was once the grinding activity of mankind is now the buzzing desolation of the even greater; of what is now a comfort.
An old day.
A new night.
Hundreds of nocturnal creatures come out to haunt and play.
The clicking of insects, the baritone voice of amphibians and that knowing hoot of our Kings of the night.
The cooling moonlit breeze swishes through me carrying yesterdays ideas.
The simple polarization of it, the great love affair with day and night that can irretrievably twist my mind towards unkindly thoughts, and flood it with madness. Insanity is complete.
The selfish girl who can aid recovery; maybe a negative can create a positive.
The bullshit mind of an arrogant boy whose heart can be leadened by words of hope.
The importance of realizing it and the reality of it finally coming to light, can quite often come too late.
I used to love, now I possess an even bigger hatred.

And will I ever really learn the lesson?

Starved Depravity

The blowing of a kiss,

the depth of a thought.



The smile of a temptress,

the confusion of the oblivious.



The laugh of the insane!