He'd hung up his boots,
unsure of where he fit against
the modern world.
Damn, he's not sure when he'd last felt one with it.
Time had a funny way of seeming real slow
but real fast all at once.
A puzzle piece led astray,
too far for whoever was putting together
the big picture
to lean over and grab.
He didn't mind the outskirts though,
where people were less,
fewer objects to fall into
and even less things to eat you alive.
A hat and pistol,
two items that'd sure stuck by him
the last few decades,
and he by them.
Late nights spent cleaning out the barrel,
polishing the chambers,
yet he hadn't shot anything more than a rattle snake
since he'd first wrapped his fingers round it.
Even timid Tom down at station 302
had shot a mountain lion.
"Better to have it and not use it than the other way around" his daddy use to told him.
Suppose the old man was right.
He'd be smiling up there knowing so.
This lowly trash can seemed like the right place
to leave the two,
a whole heap a nothing
since he'd handed in his badge.
Not a tear in his eye,
he wasn't one for big feelings,
wasn't big on anything in particular
if he was being honest.
Life had all but drained away,
just in time to spend his retirement years.
Life was funny like that some times.
Days ahead were for sipping on a cold one
in the sun
with nothing else on his mind.
At least that was the plan.
He didn't know what to make of it all,
but that didn't bother him,
he'd have plenty time to dwell on it.
As he walked away,
the floor beneath him felt lighter as
a single tear started to form in his eye.
A childhood spent playing
cowboys and Indians
was his sole thought in that moment.
Just like that,
a drink on his porch didn't sound too bad after all.
December Poetry: Sandy Wings
A bird stood in sand
is a confused creature.
Unsure of the waves ahead,
too tired to explore the grass beyond.
A sort of limbo.
Resting
while grains of sand
slowly mount on its webbed feet.
A subtle weight that goes
unnoticed,
yet soon becomes
irritating.
Over time the bird would grow to hate the substance.
Its head doesn't twitch.
Unbothered by the wind
it could gently handle,
deciding to greet it's impact instead.
Peace was no longer part of its life,
a distant memory of it's nest days.
Even flight was lost.
Not a freedom,
but a disdain for vast heights
and even bigger drops.
The bird stood in the sand,
unmoving.
Weekend Finds + Favourites: 04/11/23
An oldschool UK underground classic which I recently came across during the Channel U Documentary on YouTube. A sound I missed out on when I first moved to the UK in the early 00s. This sound would eventually break it onto the mainstream via tracks like Green Light by Roll Deep and Skepta’s Amnesia and Rescue Me, where kids outside of London would finally get a taste of what the UK underground had to offer. Although, if you ask a lot of artists today about that mainstream period, you’ll be sure to get mixed reviews.
The skit at the end of the track is also gold, spelling out the awkwardness of teenage experience that many have undoubtedly been through.
Another Oldschool Grime remix from Oakland, which is also on Sportify unlike many of the bootleg edits of today. A smooth RnB take on JME, Bossman Birdie and Big H’s infamous clip. Unlike the WIZE Edit version, this track takes the lyrics down a more relaxed route, not to take anything away from WIZE’s energetic take.
A track I just stumbled across, packing an absolute tonne of energy. Putting a HIP HOP spin on Headie One’s Drill classic, Golden Boot, it’s certainly one for any fans of the original. I’ll be waiting for the day this hits Spotify. Uploaded over a year ago, lets hope this rework gets the recognition it truly deserves.
October Poetry: Tunisian Waters
The surface
was a series of small
mountain tops,
each less summitable
than the other.
A brief moment of existence,
a collection of fleeting moments.
The sun translated onto
a rippled ocean floor
where fish would embrace
the flashes of the big light in the sky.
Humans would try and mimic this,
falling short of truly acknowledging
it's power.
Stood in the shallow waters,
instead of swimming out
to where the earth's pull
became less obvious,
unable to enjoy
the feeling of flight.
Weekend Finds: 15/10/23
Given we’re aproaching the anniversary of Virgil Abloh’s passing, I found myself heading back to a number of the many DJ sets he left with us to enjoy. I often find myself listening back to one of his talks throughout the year, finding it an immense source of inspiration as I try to understand the brilliant human he was. This track was from one of his Televised Radio sets, a series that he began during the first lockdown, livestreaming his mixes from IG live where he could be found spinning on a translcuent Pioneer deck sat atop a heavy canvas piece designed by Denim Tears. I will always find it sad that I never got to meet him or even witness one of his many live sets, a feeling I’m sure that many have felt and will continue to feel for decades to come. Regardless, we must be greatful for the all the “Free Game” he left behind.
This was a beautifully atmospheric track that he queued towards the beginning of his set. However his version featured a heart felt poem from Sonny Hall, an individual who a friend had put me onto a few months prior. Sadly, I cannot find that particular version anywhere, believing it to be one of Virgil’s personal editions. If you fancy giving it a listen then head to track 09 on this set at around 35:20 and you’ll understand what I’m on about. It’s also worth acknowledging Ryuichi Sakamoto’s piano playing throughout, another genius talent we lost to cancer.
Another producer steps onto the Grime instrumental clip scene in the form of 808mystic. Placing a different spin on Skepta’s famous Westwood session, this one provides an alternative energy to the Wize edits but still one worth adding to the playlist.
Probably one of the most human pieces I’ve heard in a long time. Well worth the 11 minute + run time, especially when you give yourself the chance to recognise how simple yet profound Simone’s lyrics were and still are.
October Poetry: The Human Towel
Borrowing someone's towel is as human as it gets,
Each other's basic recognition that sleeping wet is simply no fun,
Not to mention getting your clothes wet.
A premonition between the two that an intimacy will be shared.
The Human Towel exchange is a magical thing,
Sparsely shared,
Especially now-a-days.
When I'm older I want my towel handovers to be fun.
A nice moment shared when grabbing a 1998 Wimbledon towel from the other person,
A simple chuckle as they read the year on the frilly textile,
Before rubbing it all over their naked bodies like the bar of soap before it.
Share more towels,
If you can
Although not too many
As there are nasty things floating about.
Weekend Finds + Favourites: 07/10/23
The following are just a few tracks and images that I recently came across. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.
This one I found from a “Moog Board” playlist on Spotify. It gets quite cinematic towards the middle, something I can definitely imagine myself using later on in life if I ever get round to creating a montage of happy memories. Until then it can just remain a fun track.
This one’s a little more on the nose but delivers that feeling of being on the Brazilian coastline. No doubt a classic over there and one I hope to encounter while sipping my morning coffee at my future favourite spot.
Stumbling across this light jazz number towards the end of listening session, a favourite from the Japanese Jazz playlist I had great fun delving into.
Nike Fuelband, patent leather Air Force 1s and two Yeezy’s off of Virgil’s old blog, an era dripping in nostalgia. One day I hope to drop a Bobbito-style book with my life’s take on footwear but for now, a small dump on the website will have to do.
September Poetry: Dishwasher
I was in that moment, more conscious of being alone. No one to share a to-and-fro with, merely a gentle breeze as my companion, one that ad been there for quite some time, walking hand-in-hand consoling many a sole that spent its time on earth as one. This was and is a moment that people will share when letting others into their home. Happy to have guests but less inclined to enjoy washing the dishes after they’ve left. Although that’s what dishwashers are for.
June Poetry: Words On York
The history was palatable,
From the grass tucked between the cobbled streets,
to the cold faces of men
scribed onto the Minister walls.
It wasn't the first time that men managed to clamber onto
history through the labour
of other men.
The toil of forgotten souls who
spent days carving cold stone,
only for those inside to look
to the sky in search of theirs.
Friendly voices would echo against the cavernous walls of the Minister,
thousands of hours etched into sounds that would leap out onto the ears of eager-minded travellers.
"The word for apple is also the word for fruit in Latin",
beckoned one of the more lively tour guides,
another simple mistake that had managed to perch itself within culture for centuries.
Decades of musical references at once dispelled by a tentative historian,
his only hope be that more people spread the same message.
Upon entering,
One of the Fathers would utter words
in a moment of prayer,
people would sit in silence,
returning to childhood experiences when
older people were the voice of reason,
all of whom were looking for one small
moment to let go of responsibilities
and forget the family sat next to them,
most of whom were dependent on their strength
and guidance.
As the train drifted downwards,
the constraints would slowly fall back into position,
an unexplored city now less enigmatic,
a string of kind people
and good coffee
to thank.
June Poetry: Solace In Silence
The quiet times were always the loudest.
The grass would whisper,
the trees would coddle together,
preparing a surprise for the
humans' senses,
protecting the sun from
vengeful eyes
with its patchy branches.
Specks of light would
rush through,
a result of the trees position
among the sea of tall grass.
Both would bend to the wind,
days spent admiring the power
of a being that only
existed in passing,
reflecting on its fallen members
in a jovial compassion.
Neither the grass or the tree
would linger in its disposition.
The sun would shine regardless.
wear shoes, write poems 