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I’d watched ‘Evil Aliens’, with a good friend,; and, as it got late decided to wend my way home. Walking home, down a long road and, approaching the bend, where there’s a park, two girls, of fifteen or so, ran passed, as I had continued to walk home, beneath a clear dark sky and, across the road, one female teen separates from the group, to throw her mobile onto the floor and cry out, then wail and rant; then she berated Carly Peterson, in no uncertain terms, as a lad laughed at this and, I heard her called Kirsty, as I walked on, as he had joined his friends and, the girl who broke her phone; and she began to scream abuse and, then run on, now shouting of Annie and, her part in whatever it was: all which led me to think, some teens shouldn’t use booze, as I walked on toward home and, my bed, where I could have a much-needed snooze and leave the little Evil Aliens, to their nocturnal fun.

I’m... cold.

inna robe an clothes.



big pc ill - ish.



using ergency laptop no. 2.





evil aliens was good, even third time round.



the walk home wasn't fun.





some teens should NEVER drink.





the poem is being written. evil aliens was good, even third time round.



the walk home wasn't fun.





some teens should NEVER drink.





the poem is being written.

The walk ‘neath the leaves after the rain, can act to bring a smile to your face again, as you breathe the air so pure and sweet, after walking up the street, just enjoying the smells and the feeling of being, which so few stop to do and, appreciate the green.



That is… if you know what I mean?

Death, Before Dishonour - 18th January 2011



As I readied for the funeral, I thought of Uncle Tommy. And, that got me thinking of the last funeral I went to, my Mothers. And whilst I’d been grieving, truly hurting from pain, far worse than anything I now physically endure with a crumbling spine, someone from a website and, their friends got to lying and had me grieving yet again, for that someone I’d considered a friend, that I had then thought was dead: and I’d recalled this yet again, as I just cannot believe how someone would do that to another, who already grieves, for their dead. And that said, “Where is the honour in that?” I ask of myself, wonderin how they’d explain that to me, them and, their friends… on a website.

While everyone looks forward at New Years Eve, I tend to believe in the past and, a time when at eleven forty-five, my little Mother would por for me, a glass of whiskey as Jools Holland had his Hootenany; and, she would disappear round the curtain drapes as the clock struck twelve and on the river the fog horns sounded and, she rounded round a beaming smile on her face, saying to me, “C’mere and see…” as across the river Mersey the fireworks flew high, into the sky. And, for five minutes or so, I’d joined her, to watch them, before she’d retire to bed, after drinking a sherry and, clinking her glass with mine and, kissing me on the forehead. Then, I’d sit there awhile longer, before the gas-fire, as I had considered how fortunate I was, before going to bed, to rest my head, a contented smile on my face. And now, when it comes to the race to a New Year, it’s still the old years I recall, when I’d have a ball, having another quiet New Years Eve in, with my little Mother.