Yo - the great wokky road trip and tour de coma (pt3) are in their early planning stages.

 Arbritrary dates as follows

13 Oct - Dream Theater - London

(UK / Scotland etc in here)

21 October - Dream Theater - Munich

(Hungary / Poland / etc in here)

26 October - wedding in Nottingham

Flight over via Dubai - Flight back via wherever

In between who knows? Some general boozing and clubbing across EU . . . . . . .

 Hit me up if you're going to be around anywhere near then around then

Wokky

Found this one in the archives, no idea whan i wrote it, maybe 1992? My thoughts on my home town, and pretty much anyone I knew at the time. Probably my lowest point in life . . . . .

Coming Home - 1992

It’s been a long day.

A very long day.

Of a long week.

Of what’s been a very long year.

And I’m tired.

So very very tired.

And I want to sleep.

And perchance to dream

Of Angels.

(to dream of saints)

(to dream of sinners)

To dream is to be free.

And I do so want to be free. 

Do you know why I hate this town?

Because it’s still here.

After all these years.

It’s still here

Exactly

The

Same

As when I left. 

After all these years, their faces have changed, but the names are still the same.

Hatred, the man you hate.

Despair, your neighbour.

Despondency, the street you live on.

Loneliness, your companion.  

But do you know why I really hate this town?

Apart from the fact that it’s still here of course. 

Because it’s real.

Like a mirror is real

Like a mirror is a reflection of its surroundings, this town is a reflection of reality.

Or is that a refraction? A diminished perspective of its surroundings?

The only difference is, in reality, these things are abstracts, they colour, or shade, the world around you.  

Here they are people.

Real.

Alive.

And just the same.

As

When

You

Left 

This town that is.

This stupid town.

This stupid fucking town.

This stupid fucking town that I left so long ago to get away from it all, only to find in the real world, everything is the same.

Only bigger. And there are more of them. And they know how to hide. And they know how to hurt.  

You that is.

And they do. Not because they have to, but because they can. And they’re not from your town, so they don’t care. 

 Looking at the world through a goldfish bowl is like looking at the world through rose tinted sunglasses. The distortion colours your perception, but not reality.

It’s still there

Like this town

This stupid town

This stupid fucking town that keeps coming back to haunt me because it was right.

Only smaller

More definitive in its lessons.

And so very perfectly right. 

God I hate this town.

So blah blah blah, started writing poetry again, after a mental block of over three years. Might even get motivated for once in my life and try to get published (again).

Was reading back through some of my more introspective stuff from 2002 to 2004 - gods but depressing at points. Think I was at a very low ebb at some space in there, but it's the best I've ever done in ten years, then suddenly bang! nothing. Complete block, total lack of creativity, zippo.

Slowly coming back into it, some thoughts just flowing, some getting almost to paper and then vanishing again. Very frustrating, wish I could figure out what the insiration is some times, but it's like there one day and then gone again.

Ah well . . . . . . .