Words #1

You should be grateful for the opportunity to say whatever you want to say and whatever you have to say. You should hate being edited or censored. You should abhor being banned or silenced.

You can't be responsible for how people react to what you say, and you can't always be held responsible. You put your thoughts out there. They're who you are, your very essence. And once those words are out there, for everyone to read, those words are there to be interpreted however anyone sees fit.

You don't need to back down from them if you know you're right.

You don't always have to compromise.

Because if you can't defend your words then you have absolutely nothing worth saying.

Owed To A Kiss

If I could hold your hips or hands
Or touch you places you can't stand
Then turn around to face my face
We'll kiss and feel our pulses race

When on the corners of your mouth
I'll dream my dreams of journeys south
To hold your cheeks in both my palms
And feel my back within your arms

Then pause to help us catch our breath
This matters more than life or death
My fingers wrapped around your throat
A paradox and antidote

Into the fray I taste your teeth
The all around and underneath
So soft and hard and right and wrong
Like singers of a wordless song

And bitten lips and nibbled tongues
And air sucked out of fondled lungs
Our mouths entwined in heedful bliss
Defining essence of our kiss

Valentine's Day

I'll probably get up about eight or nine, possibly put some washing on, maybe do a bit of ironing.

I could listen to some Love Music...



Later on I might write some poetry, dwell temporarily on my past, remembering the good times. After that I could go for a drive. Somewhere peaceful that will reflect my contemplative mood. I'll consider LOVE and the times I thought I'd found and known love. The feeling, the abandon, the gut-wrenching abstinence. Then I might recall the moments when I thought love had been lost. The despair, the redundancy, the soul-destroying gravity.

Or I'll imagine our date. At the arboretum. Where we would always have gone if you'd stayed another day. The place we'll always be going tomorrow. Walking and laughing and running and breathless, catching leaves to make wishes for each other. We could take a cool bag with some scones and clotted cream and jam, and a flask of hot tea.

On returning home I could bask in the joy of being alive and consider how fortunate I am to have the things I have. I should ring my daughters and my sisters and my Mum. Later still I might put the heating on, then run myself a nice hot bath, and afterwards just put a bathrobe on. I could even break open a bottle of wine, just to put an edge on the day.

Then finally, when the day is almost done, I'll snuggle up on the sofa, put on a DVD, and wank myself into oblivion.

Patrick Wolf

I'll try and make this brief.

I'm a 35 year old divorced father of two. If I had a job I'd be an employed 35 year old divorced father of two. It was never my intention to write about stuff like this, or to write about stuff like this like this. I didn't expect to be prompted into committing such a piece to public scrutiny. I should probably feel a bit embarrassed, but I don't. Why should I be? I'm a 35 year old divorced father of two.

Anyway. I'll cut to the chase. I've got a bit of a crush on Patrick Wolf. Although this isn't a confession any more than it should be a surprise. He's an amazingly beautiful man.

I don't really know anything about Patrick Wolf except that he sings wonderfully, in words that I can understand. And that sometimes he's like a glorious busker. And sometimes he's shinier than Liberace. And other times he's darker than diamond. And he makes me smile and he, in turn, smiles like it's a new invention. And above and beyond almost every single other thing he makes every single other thing he does look incredibly natural and unforced . In fur or feathers. Or jogger shorts with leopard print ears. Or short sleeved sequined hoodies. Or one and a half red gingham shirts.

Call it what you like. Star quality? The X Factor? All I know is that Patrick Wolf makes this 35 year old divorced father of two feel like telling you this series of gushing random comments, and hopes that they might fashion themselves into something coherent. He's got something I'm trying to define but I'm not sure that I can. It's not about how he looks or sings or acts, and yet it is about all of these things. He has it. And he wears it like it's an accident.