There,
with the spider
and the gathering dust
in between the space
where the vacuum exists,
that’s where I should be,
no bother, not in the way,
an inconvenience
to no one
except the maid with drooping eyes
and the start of impetigo on her top
lip which she dull like covers
with purple lipstick and unshaved hairs;
that is where I should be,
there in hiding
in the cracks
not a nuisance
or distraction.
Ian D. Hall 2016
Ghosts of who we were
haunt the spaces
we once filled;
echoes of a voice
long since silent
or broken.
Shadows cast too long
by blinding light,
reflected
by mirrors and lamps.
New histories
repeated
yet, without mistakes,
interpreted
mistaken.
Remembered anew,
but unfolding
as we speak.
Like wallpaper – hung,
covering cracks
never seen –
no words can describe
what’s underneath
these motifs.
Ian Miller
Liverpool Sound and Vision Rating * * * *
Cast: Miles Teller, Jonah Hill, Bradley Cooper, Ana de Armas, Kevin Pollack, David Packouz, Eddie Jemison, Julian Sergi, Edson Jean, Patrick St. Esprit, Jeremy Tardy, Ashley Spillers, J. B. Blanc, Gabriel Spahiu.
War has always been good for the economy, especially those that want to make a killing. It is no secret that the point of war is not to spread peace but to make money and for some bullets and dollars are all that make sense.
The Great Orm’s shadow,
high above the promenade
of Llandudno, the presence
of a once-thought God and worshiped such,
sits down in his latter days and chews
on the past, ruminating slowly
as his careful words take shape.
He enquires, sharp eyes blazing
as heavenly as the Sun at the centre
of the day’s disjointed topic
conversation, whether he thanked
me for attending my aunt’s funeral
on a cold and stormy wet day
eighteen months prior.
I told him I needed no thanks,
Liverpool Sound and Vision Rating * * * *
It is a big step up from debut to the sheer scale of the so called difficult second album, the strides that need to be taken to ensure that the music continues to flow, that the result is heard with open ended honesty and the hunger just at the right level so it does not seem as if the band is gnawing at a bone which is exposed and bare; all its trapping and furs removed. It is an album that needs to see progression yet still be rooted enough in the same beauty that transfixed the original fans; to speed up and to shout out with guts and determination that they are Never Slowin’ Down.
Liverpool Sound and Vision Rating * * * *
Music is everywhere, even those who profess not to like it cannot avoid it for as Trapt prove with heavy eloquent ease, it is in our blood, it runs amok in our veins, it tears the heart and brains apart and crushes any sign of dissent; it is the lifeblood of the Universe and it is in our DNA.
The building blocks of life, the genetic coding which determines what are physically if not emotionally, all can be stripped down and given a name but it doesn’t replace the way that actions and effects can have on the mind and make even the strongest doubt themselves or the so called weakest find courage when everybody else shrinks into the background.
Liverpool Sound and Vision Rating 8.5/10
The last man standing, the glory of the battlefield and the ceaseless noise that continues in the head long after the final bullet has pierced the skin or the last sound on the bugle has recognised victory or devastating loss; war is as old as humanity, it is the struggle against tyranny that keeps it fresh and the hope of freedom that stirs the blood lust.
There are moments when the world, or at least certain people with decency in their hearts and the courage in their minds, is able to make a huge difference. There are many problems to be discussed, to be addressed and be solved, no matter how far we come as a civilisation, no matter the dizzy heights of industrial might, of reaching out beyond our mortal capability into the stars and the progress of technical know-how, people fall through the gaps. They become unseen, almost invisible, past the point of sight until they blur into their surroundings and whether it is through the actions of someone else or their own misfortune, brought on perhaps by a Government and others that just don’t care, the cracks open up regardless and the streets, the parks and the obscured shadows become the home of the dispossessed and the homeless.
Starched,
expensive, made by hand
in a luxurious and classy tailors
with the word
sir
attached to every sentence,
the suits populate the world,
like a cockroach
they can never be destroyed,
they just live through
every explosion that comes their way
and they dust themselves down
and continue shouting instructions
to the shirts and the vest tops;
oh I would like to hang them by their perfect tie.
Ban the suit; the Burka, the motorbike leather,
the heavy metal gig T-shirt, the Crewe
They will question your commitment
to their cause,
the one you never
realised you signed up for
when you wrote about them
in black typed Bookman
Old Style and at size twelve
Font; they will mistrust
when there is a day away,
when you take time from Time
and they will suspect that you
are not one of them,
when you don’t even know what one
of them is.
Less money, less by-line, less
show of hands, just ravenous eagles
soaring high in blue bible sky.