The dog knows. She watches the moments you step past yourself, the small turns you don’t notice, the habits you defend without noticing. She sees where you soften too late, where you harden too early. She smells the fear before the words, the apology forming after the damage. 1/2

Voices from the past do not rest politely. They tap the glass of now, clear their throats, say we are still here. Some truths never learn how to whisper. #poetry

I cross the borders into @hookland.bsky.social. There is a shade of grey that only exists in the eyes of the sheep here. It’s the colour of a TV tuned to a dead channel. They often stand in a perfect circle. I think they’re waiting for the hum, or perhaps for me to stop watching.

The floorboards don't just creak; they remember the weight of him. I scrub the salt from the threshold until my knuckles bleed white, but some stains aren't on the wood. They are stitched into the quiet between my own heartbeats.

Night comes fast and lingers. Things within shift and breathe, a hush of wings, a pulse beneath the garden’s skin. The air forgets its warmth, its name, and what was still wakes again. #poetry

Rain crawls across the mill roofs like it knows our names. The hills lean in, listening. Every light in this village flickers at once, and I swear something out there just breathed. 1/3

Today I read, lose myself in the words of others. Words I choose to let in, not ones that demand me. A small freedom, but mine. #amreading

I want to be a writer. I know it won’t pay the bills. But it might make me happier. Not famous. Not impressive. Just something honest to do each day.

The morning hush, strong coffee, the gentle creak of a house awakening. Light finds the edges. Nothing asked of me yet. Just breath, and the day holding back.

There’s the shape in the corner you always said was nothing. The thought that waits for the house to go quiet. Old fears with good memories. Habits that learned to breathe in the dark. They don’t shout. They never had to. #poetry

Decay isn’t sudden, it’s a forgotten name, a missed appointment, milk turning quietly at the back of the fridge. It’s birthdays held in your mouth for a second too long. Keys left in doors. The room you walked into and can’t quite justify. No collapse. Just a thinning. #poetry

Done with the season, I woke in the same chill, older, inaudible, time pressing its hush on the sill. #poetry

I am a ghost of the Wirral, still breathing but removed. I walk familiar streets as if through memory, not place. I leave no mark on doors, no weight on borrowed rooms. Known once by name, now by absence. I am not lost, only lightly held by a place that no longer needs me.

I am trapped by what I have made. Old fears crowd in, close and sharp. Something in me wants to give up, but a small, clear light says stay, this is not the end.

This tree has learned symmetry the way a body learns pain. At its centre, light finds the shape of a heart by absence alone. Nature is not mute. It speaks in mirrors.

It's spelled Chrmbo now, Christmas is a time to think of others before yourself, there is no 'i' in Chrmbo.

Christmas Eve now, Less about what might arrive More about who still will, Footsteps gathered, chairs pulled close, Love counted by presence, not presents.

My head caught fire, thoughts burning, the heat of creativity forging new things. Ideas ran molten, shaping themselves before I could stop them, cooling into something solid, something mine. #poetry

My son's new band, 72 Houses, with their original Sticks & Stones. He's the guitarist.

Currently

My band Holy Coves Autumn Tour starts this Thursday in Bristol, Liverpool & Birmingham for the opening weekend 🙌 Fully Independent. Fully Lovely, Cool & Sexy! I had you at my band of course! See you soon you awesome beautiful people 😘

This anthology came out under the radar this year but am remedying that. I came into the project to help get it out and this most certainly wouldn't have been achieved without the work of Noel Osualdini & Dan Franklin. A proper team effort. www.amazon.com/Monster-Bone...

Harrowfield is a tiny village in the Marches, that wild strip of borderland between England and Wales. When Derwenna Parry’s brother goes missing whilst surveying farmland, she and his daughters head to the village to track him down. And now Midsummer approaches ... mybook.to/Harrowfield

Sorry you can hear my shouts a bit, but here's a clip from NMA at Birmingham institute for their rescheduled Unbroken tour.

Saw New Model Army this week.

Folk horror for autumn. Take a walk in the Harrow Field, but only during the day. At night the folk of green and gold decide it's time to play ... Out October 1st mybook.to/Harrowfield

My skull burns with ideas that never sleep. Machines hum lullabies of endless tasks. I lean closer to the screen’s pale mercy and offer my mind, one line at a time, to the quiet hunger of code, the cold indifference of the algorithm.

Hope everyone got a ticket 🎟️

The real me is the worst of the bunch!

Well, the #sheffhorrorfest #celluloidscreams lineup looks great. I can't go, but I'm sure people will keep me in the loop. Enjoy the digital ticket scrum Saturday.

The Midnight Sky Dog is now one spoiled and entitled pooch since Hobbs passed.

Sorry I've not posted in an age. I've been doing all the usual stuff.

Recent

I've got to remember to post here.

Here, we bare our souls and can't bear arseholes.

The Cure released #Disintegration 35 years ago today. A pivotal time in my young life, a pivotal time in my musical leanings! This album literally changed everything for me.

Really wish I was up at #CultureShock - I equate Sheffield with my cinema life and the Cell crowd are some of my finest friends.

It's not being a father, it's being called 'Dad' when they've no longer a need, when there's no other reason than that's what they mean. That's when your heart sings. That's when you know you did one good thing in the world. I love my Dad. I'm loved as a dad. It's enough.

The sky cracked, oceans rose, and the world quietly burned. Most ran, some begged, a few prayed - but me? I poured a large one and watched. Why would I run when the world was already ending? Not every ending needs a survivor. Some just need a witness.

If you've been listening to @classicfm.com Hall of Fame over the weekend, you might (or might not) be interested in my own personal #Top5 pieces of classical music that I wrote about here www.omandoriginal.com/2018/04/top-...

Reality is frayed. I can’t grasp the shape of silence between each tick of the clock, how furniture shifts when I blink, or why the mirror never shows me leaving.

The last egg had melted, the last smile worn, the final mirror cracked. Still, something knocked—politely—at the cellar door.

He ate the octopus raw to prove a point. By dawn, his thoughts had eight arms, and his eyes blinked sideways.

I'm fluent in echoes.

"One for the Road" by David Shakes is a dark, twisty piece of flash fiction involving regret, haunting memories, and the supernatural consequences of one's actions—centered around a bar setting and a mysterious drink that seals a fate.

Anyways - here's where reading British folk horror in Lanzarote gets us: In the furrows of La Geria, vines lean low to kiss the ash and winds count backwards. Stones whisper names long unspoken - not since the fire walked. Harvest comes, yet no one recalls the planting.