Biscuits

sleep song

south tott-en-ham fr33style

Half-man, half-droid

Or rev wah

Some of the final tracks I created using the sound recordings.

Aalvk

train trap_3

Ex (Still) Marks the Spot

Regardless of chat, please know this.
Of the last and only 3 girls that I’ve missed,
You’re probably second, on the floor of that list.

And if I was given just 5 words to say,
To the 3 that are in question;
In, a chronological order. They rank…
Sorry. Fuck you. And thanks.

But what if I’d chosen and decided to hide
And helped out where useful
Instead, I chose to subside.

And see if I’d thought of what it was but it was not
And the truth is, I thought that a lot.
It’s funny, you think. But that’s simply too small.
I’ve both given a lot and I’ve given fuck all.

So what does that make me?

I absolutely do not know.
But when I halt and I listen, I see then, that it shows.

Because the ex still marks the spot.
And it’s exactly, where the next one goes.
So, please.
Tread carefully. 
But they don’t.
Who nose.

Now I slumber, and now that I mellow.
I swim quickly. Away, from where shallow.
And realise, it’s not actually a dream.

So when I stop, and it’s deep
I see spring tides, like thine eyes, blue.
When I sleep.


Artwork created by Chloe Firbank (@chloefirbank_art)

Ex (Still) Marks the Spot

Home is where the fart is (live in Castle Park)

In the morning, walking, talking.
Into the kitchen.
And “fuck me, that stinks!”
Dad’s stood there no, underwear.
With just his green dressing gown on.
And the fart just fucking lingers…
It stays in the kitchen for so long.

Home is where the fart is,
because when you’ve lived in as many as me,
(I think that, not including uni, I’ve lived in 23)
You lay to haste, in garden waste,
and it’s the smells that make it your own.

As everything will change,
but it all just stays the same…
Welcome, to your new home.

But fuck it, home is where the fart always is!
My sister loves baked beans.
I shit you not, she’ll sink a pot.
And fart dance, for the queen.

I do remember a time when she got quite savagely ill though. 
Just sat, at the dining room table.
Like ‘what’s up Jas?’ I said.
Erm… “I don’t feel too well”.
A second passed. A, cloud from ass.
And “what the fuck is that smell?”

Eggy burps, and eggy farts.
I can still fucking smell them.

Home is where the fart is.
Whether we’re up north, down south
or, somewhere in-between.
Home is when the TV’s on, and Mum’s farting in her jeans.
She’ll hate me for saying that.

Anyway, home is where the fart is,
because we only fart at home.
And the farts most at home, when we fart home alone,
as farts love a fart if it’s at home when you start.

That’s cool though, 
Our home is empty without our farts.
Imagine, our farts but, not riddled with zest,
and our homes left now, wondering in jest.
Ah fuck sake, I’ve forgotten the rest.

Though let me tell you about a time where I started to fart,
but ended up following through.
I said “Oi, smell this!
Argh, it’s shit! Jas, Jas!
Now, what do I do?!”

Well, I can tell you what I fucking did. 
I cleaned up, and I carried on.
For sure, it was messy.
But, messy, not for long!
You see, the beauty of a fart,
is that it’s here,
and then it’s gone.
So when I get back,
And I smell some swift crap,
I know that’s just,
where I belong.

Thanks to the MA Curators who hosted the free for all poetry event. Read more about their project here: https://whatishometoyou.home.blog

Home is where the fart is (live in Castle Park)

Sounds, with no pounds, or not but without a tuppence to give. This is the list. Go on, listen. Please, I insist.

Aalvk

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