Donnie Trump (demo)

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Gulls of the See

I always thought I’d write of women, and of lust,
Of life, and of love, and of trifles, and nuts.
But. For a sonnet in telling, and a girls name in yelling.
Thou must replace ifs, with butts.

So if not one thing I love, and instead one thing I hate.
It’s with rye indecision, that these words start late…
Seagulls. Gulls of the See. Seas of seagulls,
and gulls of sea’s,  see?
Gulls of the see, and gulls that indeed.
Gulp up half of the fish in the see that we need.
Though that’s fine, do it, the food chain’s a hit.
But please, stay away from my damn cheesy chips!

‘Cause I say, Oi!
Listen here, you beady eyed duck!
I paid, £2.50 for those.
Get your own cardboard tuck.
Honestly, I’m tired, bereft I’ve had enough.
Of these big white birds acting all big white and buff.
I’m scared of doing the bins. I’m scared, to step outside.
I’m scared of the seas, the sky, the road.
I can’t actually hide.
I’m being watched on street corners,
I’m being watched in my room.
‘It’s fine mate’. Said a friend.
‘There, are worse things on the news’.
But that’s yonder I declared! They’re spoiling the fun.
‘Alright’ he said, ‘go get a gun’.

I could, I might. No, that just ain't right.
For all the rubbish they eat, and rubbish they bring.
There are times when there’s in fact nowt more welcoming
than the song that they sing.
And maybe, it’s not all so bad and perhaps, I’m just pissed.
Because the gulls near my flat have fucked more times
than I’ve kissed.

Forgive me. I’m sorry for swearing.
You’re just trying to live.
Maybe I, like many others, are all take take take and no give.
So for now, let us rejoice.
And share this land with ease.
But, if  you want some chips and cheese…
Next time, say please.


Photograph for artwork stolen from Kiah Spilsbury (@k1ayh)

Gulls of the See

Ex marks the spot

To think of some words I wrote.
And to think of wild words of which, that I like.
I must remind myself of what I once thought, was right.
If going back to when these written words were wrote,
I think but only of a shore.
Not quite, that of certainty. But please.
Let me share more.

We were laying back, grassy patch.
I was reciting past words to a girl.
In the sun, the date was done.
And I was but peacocking through poetry in return for her world.
Peacocking, if you didn’t know, is when a guy struts his stuff.
I guess what happens later is,
This.
But, not enough.

For that, I must apologise, as my feathers were just plucked.
It’s difficult to know what love is sometimes.
But before it hit me; I ducked.
I thought I was doing the right thing
It might not have seemed it, though, trying my best.
But what I’ve learnt and what the rest might suggest, is much. 
Much less.

Perhaps it was the fault of golf.
I started playing last year and recently, a fuck ton of a lot.
For a while, I loved 19 holes, but now 18 is all I’ve got.
Many think golfs boring, and I imagine as did you.
Put the par 3 on my favourite course, let me put my balls…
In too.

Though, with jokes aside. I must admit. Then if not that, then 
definitely swiss. Quite simply. I, lacking seriousness.
And again, I must apologise. For this.
As my heart was never really there.
It’s difficult, to know what love is sometimes.
But I think, you have to care.

I suppose at points you must follow a path, but at times the brain 
will try and take charge. And this, you must not, resist.


Artwork created by Chloe Firbank (@chloefirbank_art)

Ex Marks the Spot

G-Ma

To my grandma, I would like to say thanks.
Thank you for helping my Mum out, when me and Jas were kids.
Thank you for bringing Uncle Roy round for Christmas
(and thank you, for the gifts).

Thank you for all the trips to Pontins, in Uncle Colins whip.
Thank you, but not for your sandwiches. Because the butter was 
always one inch thick!

Thank you. for when, I don’t know, you walked us to school.
Thank yourself for seeing The Beatles live, because that is 
actually fucking cool.

Thank you for your intelligence, and for reading incredibly quick.
Seriously, I bought Grandma a book one Christmas and she read most 
of it inside the day.
Thank you for your honesty, and for saying absolutely whatever it 
is, that you wanted to say.

Thank you for being a City fan
And for when you’d laugh at how shit United are now.
And thanks for the catch-up Cricket chats.
Those, I’ll miss.

Thank you for your time Grandma,
It’s genuinely been great. It’s amazing to think of all the new 
people that you have and will continue to have helped make.

Thank you for everything.
It’s a shame now, but I guess this is it.
So thank you Grandma, for the love that you gave.
And in light of what you told me once,
I’ll do my best, to be brave.

G-Ma

I called myself from my home phone, to my mobile.

Two telephone call freestyle skit

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)

bit of a summery chill vibe track. nothing too dark and depressing

lotus

Elsie Taylor's Album

NEVERLAND

Will Hawkins is a British folk-punk singer songwriter based in Bristol, UK. 
 
His debut folk-punk release Unoriginal Songs - EP introduced us to an artist who isn't afraid to poke fun at social & political issues through satire and comedy. The latest single Charlottesville continues to enlighten us with Hawkins' honest & comical observations of society around him.
 
Hawkins is often sonically likened to other British folk-punk artists such as Frank Turner and Will Varley. Lyrically he takes influence from the likes of Billy Bragg and Beans On Toast.
 
"The world needs his brand of honesty now more than ever." - EarToTheGround Music 
 
"Hawkins is an able wordsmith and his ability to be blunt and charming at the same time is impressive." - Adobe & Teardrops
 
"His music is sharp, doesn’t mince words, and spreads folk-punk vibes depicting the artist’s personality." - Indie & Tonic

Donnie Trump (demo)

Will Hawkins

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