Tag Archives: Ian D. Hall

Oliver Light, The Clockwork Within. Album Review.

Liverpool Sound and Vision Rating * * * *

Time is an illusion, yet it is one that humanity can no longer live without, for the passing of the day means nothing to our minds unless it is filled with notches, hourly, quarterly, each minute carefully allotted set tasks, moments in the sun, the sense that in the end light will follow dark and in between we have to fill the space around us with something, electronic or pulse driven, mechanical or solar, nothing truly represents Time than The Clockwork Within.

Giovanni Cristino, 01. Album Review.

Liverpool Sound and Vision Rating 7.5/10

Memory is something very precious, we are the sum of all that we remember and hold dear, even those moments in which we try our damndest to forget everything, can hold a sparkle of beauty that seems to be an island in a sea of perpetual troubles and yet one we cling to lest the memory fades of when we stood tall, when we stood for something that would hurt us because we saw the other side was wrong. Memory is after all, all we are and all we will be in the eyes of others and memory is amplified by the senses, none perhaps finer than the sense of sound.

Dying On My Feet, Theatre Review. Liverpool Art College, Liverpool.

Liverpool Sound and Vision Rating * * * *

Cast: Joanne Tremarco.

Death, arguably, is not the end; it is a state of being that continues in the hearts of those left behind, long after the last breathe has been drawn. The poets and artists have always been one to draw the subject as a next adventure, perhaps in keeping with Buddhism, the soul moving on from one umbilical cord to the next, the next chapter in a long reading list. It could also be a one shot, possible prize winning article, done and dusted regardless of how many words and the finest of by-lines are used.

Orlando.

…and all they wanted to do was kiss,

dance the night

away in some safe, secluded spot

and forget the world, forget the hate

and the day…

and the day

that should have driven by joy,

by finding a love, a sensual kiss

with someone so beautiful

instead turns red, turns violent

and where desire once filled the hall,

where attraction and solidarity

filled the air,

bullets now fly and tears, the sense of insanity

reigns in bitterness and recriminations

and the tears rue the day that Government decreed

The Temptation.

Accused of everything under the sun, blamed for all and sundry and sometimes with truth in their words and the charges – the responsibility is truly being mine alone. However, more often than not, they are just the unfortunate side effect of being the scapegoat, of being the person the finger gets pointed at when trouble brews, when the ugliness of jealousy steps into the heart of a person, when envy and hate are allowed to fester, to breed and to accumulate in a kind of toxic soup, bubbling under the surface, never truly revealed until the bitter taste of poison cramps their stomach and the foam of any residual innocence is long since evaporated.

Panini Days.

There was a certain elegance in the way the action of throwing these valuable prizes into the air that caught the attention. It was the flowing motion that they were raised, almost as if offering the precious, often fought over with the resulting small bruises and black eyes to match, the lifting of some ancient artefact to the Gods which proclaimed that the holder, the bearer of such gifts was a step beyond that of the lowly Hamlet gazing into the hollowed out skull of Yorick, they were the exuberant interest of every boy in the playground.

A Ring Of Truth.

There was a reassuring ring of Time having been unspoilt, having not moved in the decade since I last dialled the number that was scrawled out on a rough piece of paper, torn at the edges, almost in the shape of a child’s jagged, over physical idea of what shape an island lost in some storm tossed sea should be like. Hurriedly torn from a freshly bought notebook, the lack of thought in the action that would ultimately lead to the early demise of the re-pulped paper, by my mother as she passed me as we exchanged a Christmas Card on the train, the ragged island now sat comfortably on my desk before me, pride of place for a phone call I never truly wanted to make.

It’s.

It’s not that I’m mad,

surely that is beyond

the easiest of conversations,

for you have to be mad

to work with words here.

It’s more in the way that I cannot

find the Hamster

that flew off the wheel long ago

so that I can at least bury

its final remains and give the poor creature

the final shred of honour

befitting the way it held its own

in the company

of the down but not outs

and the sensationally fallen.

 

That poor Hamster

Soil.

They buried me this morning and by all accounts it was a very moving service. The memory of my mother’s loud wailing echoed around the dirty soil, infiltrating its every pore and molecule, bypassing every worm and mole that had stopped and bowed their heads in perhaps a kind of animalistic worship, the kind that at some point would turn into the possibility of food and further enriching of the mud that would surround the casket.

The Life And Times Of A Junkie.

I need my next fix.

I need the needle to come gently down

and give me an escape route out of what could be

a boring existence,

if not for my not so-secret vice.

 

The odd burning cigar still lingers here.

Long gone is the bitter recrimination of a pint savoured and destroyed

and the gentle relaxation of something intangible

has not been taken for a while

as my friend in Oxford I haven’t seen.

 

I need my latest fix.

I first visited the dealer on my own far too young.