A rebel without a clue.

Piles of refuse, dirty pigeons and vagrants... To me this is Leeds: a filthy stain, dried onto the trudged pavement where the monotony of hungry ghosts' do linger; malcontented and always always vacantly staring. In the station a very sign warning of the untruth of homelessness and want. We do it to ourselves. We gouge away. Cigarettes, alcohol and an ascending/descending array of other poisons. Banal and broken. Yet the three cities I've traveled between in the last couple of days, Bristol, Birmingham and Leeds, are exactly the same. They offer scraps and titbits. Distraction: opiates for the masses. And I think it is over entirely for me. Come the autumn I must venture forth once more unless I rot my core where nothing can repair. Life is a movement forward: an energy to be coupled with. ... A week since I returned from Bristol and how it recedes into the dim past. Most walking memories spring up when I'm feeling low: when I struggle with meaning in my life. They are reca...

A Victorian clock ticking, melancholy Upon the wall and slicing seconds, And minutes, hours, days; enough. Ruby, the Vizsla, sleeps through it Without blinking, her head hanging. Arms and legs knotted together Relaxed, she is, beyond any recall. So often today I've called 'come', But the Swift's have won every say! Now claws and paws pad no more. She has such soft posterior regions: Shammy ears, smooth belly, velvety toes And a pleasing silence. ... But then there is a noise below And off she bolts to the bottom fence When I thought she'd gone... In the distance a siren And a ball being kicked Enticing her back I guide her Inside. She's returned to 'their' bed And I gobble water biscuits And Ossau Iraty. Stillness surrounds the dusk. The clock strikes 8 And I'm upstairs climbing asleep To beckon her to cuddle next to me. And she does!