Round 'Ere - By Katherine Pearce

Round ‘ere

Fallin’ out of pubs

Into clubs

Drinkin’ shots

Night’s forgot.

Smokin’ pot

If cocaine’s not cloggin’ up your nose

And no-one knows

If you’re Snortin’ or inhalin’, or impalin’ ourselves on boys

Or toys…

Trapped in the noise

The constant drums and tribal beat

The Grippin’

Rippin’

Stretchin’ the blisters on the soles of your feet

While the walls gyrate like the bowels of hell

The drippin’

Slippin’

Steamin’ smell

Thumpin’

Pumpin’

Bumpin’ and grindin’

Hidin’ from our worries

We ain’t in no hurry to grow up

We just live UP

Even forty-year-old tarts with kids

Slash harsh colour across their eyelids

Cackling velociraptors staggering down Th’high Street

With 80’s stilettos on their feel

Chandeliers from their ears

Mouth like Leslie ash

Red-hot gash

Exhaust their Dole money cash

On boys well hung

Hungry to feel young

Drunken words are sung

To songs younger than their kids

Speakin’ of which, the Sixteen-year-old beauties are out,

Floutin’ it all

Heels on cobbles collapse and fall

Ankles crack, ego’s an all

Someone’s daughter playin’ with his ‘wherewithal’

In an alleyway, parading their anatomy to catch a thrill

Catch a chill

End up ill

Not on the pill

Not even supposed to be there girl

Stumble out on a level, in your purse you hurl

Up wkd vodka cherry

Tryna act like Katy Perry

Kissing girls so the boys will come on your face with a self-satisfied noise.

This all happens, I see

I smell the stench of the red-hot wench

You take round the back of 53

This scally boy

Gio Goi wearin’

Nobed – carved in the back of his head

Broad heavy tread

Eyebrows gashed

Once if you’re hard, twice if your solid

Tanned something horrid

Tuggin’, unzippin’, fumbling and sighing

Eyes are hazy, groanin’ and cryin’

Elastic snaps, gasping, she scratches

Weak lazy limbs she can’t match his fight

So tight

Your mates all told you sex was fun

Now you’re gaspin’ for breath under a ton

Of flesh

His muscles coil his blood boils

And she toils

She sees morning blue light above her

Thinks of her Mother

Worryin’ under covers

Not the romantic idea of ‘lovers’ she had

Don’t even want to think of her Dad

‘With such passion comes such sorrow’

And I’ve got fuckin’ school tomorrow

Christmas Innit'? By Katherine Pearce

Christmas innit?

A long train ride home in the mist and rain

Everyone in their twenties looks just the same

Big tired bags, two under their eyes

Macbooks and laptops restin' on thighs

Slumped silhouettes leaking texts and sighs

Eyes like saucers, plucky and wise

Plugged in and shipped out, back home for a while

With shoes that need mendin' and a big washin' pile

Big woolly jumpers and coloured courderoys

Over grown hair and headphones of noise

Lads thinkin' of lasses

And girls dreamin' of boys

No longer toys

Barbie's and Batman

Street fighter and Pac Man

Or a sneak peak at the fat man.

Now it's new clothes, and shiny shoes

Electronics and booze

Arguments and queues 

And maybe a shag or two

Or a fight in the loos of the local

Where your loud vocal tones frequent each year

Warm breath in your ear from alumni you feared

Who's icy demeanor has been speared by the working world

The cocky swagger damaged by that one brown eyed girl

With her hair in a twirl

And her knickers in a twist

And an over make-upped face to hide the shadow of his fist

'But love he's in a BAND!' And you soon get the gist

Slaggy little elves, and the Ho Ho Ho's

Can't get to the bar, for 'em stepping on your toes

Old lovers stir stomachs as gin fills heads

But not much can be done in your old single bed

A stones throw away from Aunt Brenda and Uncle Ted

Who crash every year for the consumerist event

Where you don't hear what’s said, only what’s meant

'The telly is shit'

'Sofas are on sale'

'The road is too icy'

'There's too much of a gale'

'Hope it don't bloody snow!'

Everyone with colds, and the car won't go

Every shows got a special, spoilt rivalry in the bar

Moneys all gone, you came a cropper, got a scar

The bags are much worse on the long train back

The ones under their eyes, and on the rack

A bright cold new year brings another stint in debt

Living off beans, damp walls and night regrets

But when watching Toy Story with your brother, and your dog

Being warm dry and sick from an overdose of Yule log

When the crap joke in your cracker brings a blast from a childlike past

It reminds you that 'Shitmas' goes too fucking fast.

I Might - By Mark Fallon

I might

i might sing a song about politicians who wear thick coats under jelly hats
that jiggle and giggle as they slide from pavement to parliament and lords and all that
and all those and all them; houses of hate and being late and perpetual debate,
while real live lions roam the urban sprawl and leave nothing to chance or to fate.

i might read a book about shoemakers or poets or painters or the la lakers,
or darwin or dylan or some kinds of villain that die on the dancefloor at chasers.
and it's not that i'm rich or that i'm blind, i just like to appreciate
some other kinds of times in the landmark minefield in which we meditate.

i might make a cannonball jacket and blow old tunes from a beat up flute
as people walk past laughing at the misfortune of sailors on ships, destitute,
but little do they know about tides and it's really the waves that win
because they are what the breeze brings, like the aroma of flowers in spring.

i might wear my heart on my sleeve if it wasn't against the dress code,
strict rules about hope and no hope and they've banned dreams and rock n roll,
because they like the ant hill, termite mound and they like going round and round
in circles with silver and gold to fool the old, and they sell lies by the kilo not the pound.

i might meet a match made in a meat grinder or empty binder, a kind of
girl that smiles when she sees the sunrise. sooner or later i'll find her,
and i'll buy her a gift under a star and she'll smile and put it in her memory
and look back when i'm the ocean and she's the mountain, and grin and remember she loved me.

i might break the taboo and fly away like an eagle
soaring high as a predator, opportune, not scavenge like a seagull
as all these ten-a-penny, suit struck, all 'love bucks'
products of the modern blender. The whirlwind game that we never took.

i might recall a lost love onto pages and separate lines with long words
that all mean nothing except the sweet sound of birds
in the short mornings hush when dying madmen collect all their wrongs
and bury them in a briefcase filled with some other kinds of songs.

i might rise in a changing wind, the only solace that paranoia brings.
i might die in the gutter at the feet of my lover who owns a halo and wings.
i might be nothing in the new dawn, in the new light - squinting as it's too bright.
i might never be what i always dreamed, but then again - i might.

'Hero' By Katherine Pearce

Hero

Sometimes, when I’ve been away for too long, I can’t remember myself.

My health is flaggin’

My mind is Naggin’ me: ‘Lad, go home’

I feel like I’m out on loan

Alone, on my own, in this other place that’s nowt like home.

Alien place

My life packed up in one small case

The sadness engrained in my weather beaten face

So I have to head back, just to touch base.

I start with a match

Watch the juggarnaughts throw and catch

Like animals guarding their patch

They pound up and down and the crowd go mental

Forgettin’ their sentimental selves

And begin to raise hell

We roar, our throats are sore

But we know what we’re there for

The passion

The drive

The hum of the wasps in this great hive

Home for a roast

To the pub for a boast

Wake up hangin’ to beans on toast.

Lust in my chest, leather on my back

That guy over there’s lookin’ for a smack

Crack

Whack him on the back of the head

Take some slag home back to my bed

Listen The Monkeys

Listen to The Smiths

Lay stupid broken dreams down in shitty little riffs.

Tiffs with her

Tiffs with him

Curse this clan I wound up in

Get smashed

Get trashed

Run right out of cash

Bloody Black eye

Made her cry

Who’s pryin in my business?

What is this?

A witch hunt?

Which cunt is sayin’ I’m not a hero.

You’re full of fear though

You little chicken shit

You’re fuckin’ full of it

If he doesn’t quit

I’ll beat the shit out of him

Slim chance of livin if you carry on

That’s it I’m gone

And I have him.

Next day, gotta go back

Back to the South

Back to the hell mouth for me

But the southern turf underneath my feet will always grow to some northern tree.