Lips To Kiss

A half finished painting that sits in my room, ready to be completed some day soon.  I am an amateur artist at best, rarely dedicating time to painting and thus rarely improving.  I do however enjoy the freedom to partake in it when I feel that urge to the push paint across canvas, to see what shapes appear and what ideas formulate before me.  This painting sprang forth one day in the garden whilst I was absently scraped paint and, using a brush, picked out the lines of the lips.  Lips seem, to me, so human in the variety of the ways that we use them.  That simple delicate touch of a kiss, which can be intimate and playful or formal and curt.  That these lips also represent another pair found on the human body is, of course, pure chance but they fit within the theme of love and all of the lust, romance and passion that this involves and entails across a life well lived.

Whatever you are doing today and whatever you are up to tonight, know that you are loved in some way by some one in this beautiful and harsh world of ours.


Acrylic on canvas, painted by the author. Lips are meant for kissing and for loving. If the photograph is shared please attribute as appropriate.


Sage advice:

“But they found a way to make a career in music against some serious odds.  They did so by dint of their own initiative, resourcefulness, and probably a fair amount of naiveté.  They took the path less taken – a path largely unpaved, far more perilous, and with few precious signposts – but ultimately more rewarding .  And, in doing so, they lived out a very basic premise of punk: Think for yourself.”

Michael Azerrad, Our Band Could Be Your Life.

Sights Old

Travelling by train has always been a serene pleasure for me, as the wheels trundle gracefully along the gilded track and my body slowly rocks to gentle sway of the ride, I feel somehow at ease with both myself and the world.

A few days ago I took the carriage heading south, to the city wreathed in historic remains.  It is a city where I have spent many hours volunteering and meeting up with friends, playing the guitar in the minster grounds and doing the rounds of the pubs and bars.

I wonder if I can put it into a poem, the quick scene that we passed by quickly as the train headed south:


Speeding through, the land grew still,

ambulance responder, crew running to the terraced house,

next minute or two, the rubbish is collected and compacted,

like the refuse of life, recycled and born anew.


I’m not sure that works, but we’ll keep it in for now.

It was a beautiful scene eclipsing the beauty and frailty of life and of our material culmination as a species.  It made me think of our bodies as empty vessels once we have died, and how we are buried like so much of our rubbish, out of the way and out of sight.  The division of death by the division of material waste itself is an odd one.  Of course we sometimes used to be buried with material goods in the deep and ancient past, sometimes inside or near the house or dwelling, but not so much anymore.  There is a distinct modern liminality zone between the living and the dead, of how some would argue that we have forgotten how to look death in the face, to accept it as we accept life.

We want our world pristine, simultaneously emulating and reviling nature and her course.


I’m sat at home, but nothing is really in easy walking distance.  It isn’t the same as when I lived in Hull or Sheffield (funny how much you can miss a place), when there were communities right on your doorstop, how you could happily mingle and take in the fresh air.  Here I feel a bit odd if I go into the front garden, with the houses bearing down and the main street just meters away.  Everyone has a job, but I don’t and I’m finding it tough to get hired.  God knows I’m searching and applying, but I just keep getting bounced back.  Ah, this all feels rather dark and soul sapping, but I just want to get on now.  Instead it seems to be a similar, familiar routine, a throwback to my days of recovery from the major leg surgery, but now there is a distinct bitter scent in the air.  It’s time I got myself out of this.

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What a beautiful creature!


‘Nil By Mouth’.  I hadn’t hoped to see the sign above my head again for a long time yet, but the tendrils of fate had designed that I go under the surgeons scalpel once more.  It wasn’t for anything major, but it left a gap in me that I will not be able to fill by myself.  Two more teeth had gone, powerful chewing teeth that had worked hard for me for years.  I shall,  and will, yearn for them again.


Hello, I hope this post finds you well and happy.  I run another blog that is pretty popular but deals with the professional side of my aspirations- both my experience in the field and my dreams to become something that I fear I may never be.  This blog will publish my short scenes, short stories, photographs and some possible artwork.  It is not to be taken seriously, or to be taken as a collective.  Each post is to be taken for it’s each own individual merit or worth.  I may include a favourite or moving song from time to time, I hope you have the time to listen as sometimes they can be quite moving.

Why should you read this blog?  There are no answers to this question, no catch all that can entice the general public, no all seeing eye that can catch the zeitgeist or the bored and lonely teenager.  This blog is just a place on the ever expanding internet, a blog where, from time to time, some half wrote scene from a memory will be posted, a song extended into an electronical suggestion, or a half baked poem will find its way online.  

The work will be all mine, all the time, until I cease to exist.  My disposition is cheerful to people who know me briefly, ridiculous to those who are close to me, and idiotic to those who know me best.

I hope you enjoy, but most of all, I hope you close the page down, open the front door and walk out and explore this big beautiful world we’ve got to inhabit whilst our eyes can see and our hearts can beat.