When We Were Wizards



Wizards sit and think of home
The way things used to be when everything mad an insane sense
When the altars were only sticky with spilt beer or pop
Things that fluttered across the dark streets were just a plastic bag from Aldi
Whispers just that nonsense you speak when intoxicated
The rages just that
Fires were red not blue and dead
The people laughed and we always went to bed
When the chimes rang twelve and those were slave bells
Sorted work and the day to day work Hells
The sky just that up there hanging like a shroud
The cries we made were shrill and a little too loud
Our robes just clothes and no unformed magic
History, love and science all tragic all sick all bundled up in parchment thick
Your hand pointed to shout and accuse now for writing letters to Angels and gatekeepers
When we weren’t wizards then home was around the corner
Prison bound last orders
Our feet now tread through wet grass

The Fail Rail


Strange and incomplete, a false thing too bright
Strange for strangers, and those who wander these roads
They boil their hate up on black polished stoves
Realise their need to know and the diamonds of knowledge fall
Pick apart threads, scarred fingers, eyes too pale to properly see
Scatter the light, too bright
Sail and rope lashed tight
The everlasting bitter fights
We travel and share whatever poison we have
For this route cleans and lay suffering again
Nailed wrists for histories end
Climb steep mountains and view sweeter glens
Valleys run deep and expose the minted breath
The endless stutter the eyes that flutter the breadth of it to stagger
Shy touch to ease the passing of the rage
To embrace the danger the eager need to please
For the hand that slips on the crumbling rock is grasped
Annihilation and sad sweeter laughs
Great tricks and illusions no sense no feel no marked road
For the maps are crumbled creased and old
Forgive, think better things
Liven the embers with rapid violence
Seek no end when the final test is done, finished
Write for the future where they will understand
When you survey on high this sad blasted land

The Curse Of Fachwen Uchar


Sitting on the river Banwy I enjoyed a roll up cigarette and chilled out to the burbling of the river over the rocks. Feet on a rock sitting quiet as you don’t hear a sound out here, very quiet, very still.

Last week I felt a tap on my shoulder and it was a man rucksack, walking boots, jolly little face. ‘Could I trouble you for one of those?’ he asked. Of course I rolled him one, his hands looked gnarled like he had arthritis. I lit it for him and he sat down. I didn’t feel troubled about his company, i’m happy to share moments.

We spoke of the Hills and where he was going. From a small Church in Anglesey he walked every year through Wales and down to the West Country to the Chapel of Saint Iorfa. A journey that took over a month. In every day he felt the hand of his God steering him.

Among the hills he spoke of the damned places he knew. This place we sat within he said ‘holds some evil that has lasted hundreds of years’. He said, ‘The Gypsies knew’ and he was honest and true. What did they know?

An evil, not of fantasy and of religious madness but that of human origin. The nasty and the heart borne evil of wicked men. The Romanii knew and warned others of their kind not to approach these places where these men sat. This Valley of the Three Wizards had a hotspot of this Evility, this degraded humaness.

He bid me to approach the Gate of the Farm called Fachwen Uchar some twelve miles away and to seek out a stone left there by the Romanii. He stood and cheerily hucked his rucksack back on and thanked me for the cigarette, the end of which he flicked into the river.

I searched for the Farm of Fachwen Uchar and found it. The Gate was at the bottom of a newly laid single lane drive, the farmhouse and buildings out of sight. I didn’t approach it as yes. There was a definite air about the land held in by dry stone wall and hedge. An air of evilness and strangeness.

Among the grasses by the gateposts I searched until at last I saw a large rock and upon it a design had been scratched. It was like an hourglass within a circle and I did not touch it. It was a ‘Lumo Ringalo’ a hefty curse and one left by a powerful Shaman of the Romanii. I could see underneath a few beads from a rotted Rosary I suspect as I did not want to investigate further. It was a warning after all.

I wondered, as I watched the long black tarmac ribbon laid over the green lush meadows at either side. What warranted that curse?

Indeed we have a Job to do a little bit of twiddling of the screw
a little bit of fettling of the hinges and singing of the hymns
a certain length to travel and Briar staves a swinging
pin your arms and settle down on the concrete
press your face into the dust kick you so hard in the balls
the window shakes and let’s fall little scabs of rust
from the bars the lofty heights vibrate to their song
the meadows the screaming Crows
the Sheep all lined up in little rows
the singing the violent delights and the cramp
the screams through retro tube driven amps
sling your hook and sky dazzled we are
but you can stretch your legs out to the opposite wall
where you scratched the designs and listed the angst
put forward your petitions in little angry words
on the farm gate an old age gypsy curse scratched on stone
underneath the frazzled brow he sits and sips in the news
grim news from the Shropshire Star
violent robberies from afar
he knows his particular time is nettled
fine time to sit and stew in the grief you lay
but the curse doesn’t lie
hopes you suffer the pains and the ills
grind the bitter little pills

There’s Something Not Right About Dave Grohl


Dave, your luscious locks flying and your anthems
to rock slobbery the effortless grace of your licks
as you run up and down grinning
but i can sense that you ain’t right mate
and the time you played that song was great
we danced and freaked you were our friend
music we rock and played to love
but something aint right and i don’t know what it is
the smile of bliss the sense the riffs
underneath the places of Dave Grohls many faces
the old tshirts the jeans and vans
the millions of screaming Dave Grohl fans
the tour pass the skaterboy ting
the verses that you fling, to us
I tell you man
There’s something not right about Dave Grohl



it should have been a concrete or plastic wall
coated in the wires from his bed
and the flashing lights green and red
and amber and white yellow and black
but it was a path a never look back tack
a sheer drop for lives and forgotten wives
for we have one foot here and one foot there
between the stink of shit and the country air
put your hands together to make a sound
all the stories you made up unravel
believe in the pay off the one million
the dirty dollars in your hands
the distant sea and the artificial sounds
the round and round the hellioland
it’s what we wanted to see and talking in tongues
deceived betters and all the bitter wronged
always what we wanted it to be
if you think that person is you it had better be me
saw at the bars from hand to hand
for the offers at Lidle and Aldi the James Hunts
The Emerson Fittapaldis
i can’t bang my head up the wall forever
peace to my mens and the scribbles from felt tip pens
and the angst pours and we twist it
hard to understand hard to resist it
pulling the shoelaces tighter and harder
the distant fucking shore seems farther
and i hope you dont feel the Popes far away
as they sing to us prostitution songs
curling in the pod the dudes with the sawn offs
hustle your coat tighter and hurry along
fire breathers and liars songs
trust me in the future they will read bleed and fucking seed
lie desire and make sordid thrusts
breathe the holy fire suck the holy lust