Monthly Archives: February 2012

Fanfares fluctuate fervently following friendly faces, for foreign fields have finally faded for now

Fuel fumes, forming fibrous flumps, fetching forgotten fantasies from frontal lobes, forevering the familiar feel of flat five

Famished Friday feeder’s frequent friaries famous for fatal fodder, foregoing fresh food for flamboyant and fermented fizzy fructose

Filled full, folk forfeit footholds falling foreskin first into felching festivities, forgetting foreboding formalities

Femme fatale feels foolish for felating four fellas fastidiously at first sight of fags and fast cars

Funk fosters feeble fawns as flashlights fixate first time fears for filling faces with formula

Fashionista forces fickle flocks to fell flowing follicles, fasten flimsy frocks and forego Fahrenheit for frost to fix feisty fortuity

Fandango feasts feverishly on furlongs of fruitless fornication, it fasts fireworks, fullness and fidelity

Far from fluorescent frivolity, foremen fake fisticuffs for the fancy of a filly and a figurative finale

Farewell to fools, foolers, fops, fighters, forgivers, forsakers, fairystory tellers, to fortunates, floggers, fibbers, friggers, to, frogman and frog femme, to fuck-harders, fast asleepers, filmmakers, to flat renters, fulcrumers, full-uppers, fly-downers, fixed raters, first-timers, to flyhighers, foxtrotters, foil wearers and filesharers of Fallowfield – for now…





Pere Lachaise Cemetery – Home to the most dead in Paris…

Tombs stacked upon tombs upon tombs.  An enormous pile of corpses elaborately memorialized. Bodies dressed in stone. Winding, cobbled paths lead through layers of immortal goodbyes.  It is all history.  Crypts crumble, gates and fences rust. Flowers wilt.  A crow hops from headstone to headstone to pay some last respects of the day.

People lean on tablets of their favourite poets and philosophers as, with a click, loved ones immortalise their presence among the famed dead.  At Jim Morrisons grave, for example, there is a tree where people have wedged chewing gum into the bark.  They use it as a smooth surface on which to write a note of respect to the late singer.  ‘You relight my fire!’.  ‘We are all spies…’                                        Two young ladies are looking for the final resting place of Edith Piaf.  They tell me they have been looking for almost an hour now.  “I hear she was difficult in real life too” I say.  We all stand for a moment at her burial spot. The girls get their necessary photographic proof that Edith is dead.

“What’s over there?” one of the girls asks pointing up the hill.  “It’s an area dedicated to those massacred in the concentration camps of the Second World War.” I say.  “Is their anyone else worth seeing whilst we’re here?” They say.  “Not anymore” I say.


The Alps.

Gods Green Trumpet.

An instrument of nature used to scream to the world ‘Look how beautiful I am.  Be of envy’.  Shouty, boastful Alps.  Shouldering each other aside for prize place on a craggy stage.

Gigantic lakes of slushy tears collect around their heartless ankles from a constant weeping about their own beauty.

The Alps.

Cowardly they duck behind the foreground. Behind bell towers and truck stops. Behind gentle growth and lazy homes.  Peeping out for a glimpse of the infinite smallness. They are scared that our voyeurism will suck the beauty from their form.

Some stand proud and solid, directly ahead of you. Waitng fearlessly for a snatch of your bewilderment.  These are the brave ones. The ones that simply dissapear into the ever fading horizon as we surpass their ancient stance.


But perhaps the Alps have grown lazy.  Perhaps they once ploughed around the globe as we now plough over them.  Perhaps they explored and discovered, up rooted and ransacked.  Looking for some answers or meaning to it all.

And perhaps they got sick of this and retired to a flat land where the air was clear and the skies were blue and food was cheap and no one asked to many questions.

They are clearly long since retired from a life of adventure and have probably forgotten themselves and want nothing more than peace and quiet.

I’m sorry the Alps…