I Might Have Known The Rain Would Come

The good people at Caught By The River have put another one of my poems up, if anyone fancies having a read, here

The Alex Ferguson Apology School

I used to work for this woman. It was in a bar in my home town. A small, nondescript town the like of which you will find dozens of around London. This woman was incredibly stupid. I mean, one of the most stupid people I have ever met. She was nice enough, and I didn't not enjoy working for her, but she was really stupid.
Anyway, this woman was physically incapable of saying sorry. She just could not apologize, no matter what she had done wrong, or how she had made you feel. She would always have some kind of answer or justification ready. She had to have the last word. She probably thought saying sorry was some kind of acceptance of weakness, or admitting you were wrong once would undermine everything you did after that. Whatever, she couldn't do it.
Just a thought for you here, really. Gross stupidity and not being able to apologize. Just a thought.

Poetry Day - Word.

I guess a poetry post would be appropriate seeing as last week marked National Poetry Day, and posting something this late would be appropriately slack of me, as well. Although given that no-one actually reads this, I guess I could just write anything, at any time I liked.
Oh well, I understand the narrative at least.
Anyway, I got a copy of Thom Gunn's Man With The Night Sweats on Friday. I sat in The Star And Garter on my own for an hour and drank and read. For what it's worth, I was immediately and completely struck by the heartfelt, honest, unsentimental rendering of love and lust in all their many forms and stages that unfolded on each page. There are other themes as well, but I haven't read anything that was as romantic and hopeful as this without being unbearably cloying for a long time. Anyone care? Doubt it. But there we are...

I'm a little unsure about posting whole poems here, so I'll put a link up to a really great one,
here

So long, Steve

England's touring squads for South Africa named, and there is one glaring omission in the (admittedly rose-tinted) eyes of this writer, at least. I guess at least it marks the end of me worrying every time he lopes in to bowl, or feeling blue every time I see him trudge back to fine leg, puzzled look on his face, then turn, hands on hips, away from the crowd. Long live the enigmatic fast bowler. We need them. Fast bowling should be for crazy, lost, broken-hearted, angry, drunk, poetic, troubled, stupid, forlorn loners. It's not the place for hair gel, alice bands, sculpted beards or pin-up players. I'm sad. Really sad, but I can take it. Steve, thanks for being a proper fast bowler.

Move Home

Boxes of books packed up. Records that haven't been heard since I moved from the last place, still boxed. They move on again. This week was a blur of drink and stress, punctuated by Robin Van Persie goals, and Arshavin's flick. 23. He had the nerve to be offside? Can't even remember the night, now. Tuesday? Wednesday?

I was out, I remember that much.

A Poem And A Great Website

How I Learned To Live Without Candles