cervical radiculopathy
paresthesia
spondylosis
dermatome
worsening neurological deficits
occiput
pinched nerve
pins and needles
aging wear and tear
the nerve path
clumsy hands
headaches
feelings
Cold moon.
Bells clank and clatter
far off on the hills up high.
Above the wild white wonder
as large as the sky.
I departed for a walk
on a winter’s day;
Scattered tufts of frozen blades
guided the way.
I tasted the excitement
on the wind’s frozen air.
No animal moved freely
under my glare.
Children slid, jumped, and threw
their newfound toy.
Ran my hands through the powder
embracing each flake of joy.
The trees groaned under
weights as heavy as a house.
Soon the sun would say goodbye
like dying flames shining on a winter’s grouse.
Their arms wrapped up
against nature’s blanket of chalky dry milk.
Glistening fields of brightness
reflecting the overwhelming beamed sun on silk.
Keeping gifts in mind beyond
the long-passed autumn nights.
The excitement of finite December
filled with hope and delights.
Pending under way.
Just a sign would be good. A little update. Yet nothing.
Eight weeks, they said. That was months ago. How can a win feel like defeat? That jubilation has long passed. Instead an ache like no other has filled the void. I feel it in my chest, my collarbone, and as firing spasms of burning paresthesia. It hurts.
I’ve never felt so insecure, so vulnerable, or so weak. It shatters me: a nerve-wracking wrecking ball of uncertainty. I feel waves of anger and catch myself ready to lash out. I picture walls with new found dents, wrecked knuckles, boot-marks in fences, and all manner of destruction.
My mind tests itself with views that I fully disagree with. I see the Union Flags and England colours draped and tatty on street lighting across Manchester and I feel that I don’t belong anymore. This isn’t the nation I grew up in. I feel ashamed to be British. I feel lost.
And that all-important growth is all because of life in limbo. I feel the self-appointed hangman’s noose tighten. I question whether I should section myself. My mind is at war. My body is giving in. It’s weighed down, as if trudging in mud, and I am sinking.
The bad news flows like a torrent over High Force waterfall. The plunge pool rises and I’m face down. The breaths of air I want to take are slipping away. “Come back” on one hand versus a suspended existence on the other. A pulse racing. Light flickering to off.
I’m a grenade. The pin is loose. It won’t take much. A lost bike light in a dark park refused to be found. I boil further. The tangled lead and the dog that refuses to follow. I pull harder. A stubbed toe. A tear that refuses to flow. I am ready to burst.
It’s the hope that kills you.
Newton Heath
This way to the motion
This way I finally go
God hand me a chance to reply
God deal me a possibility
Grab your thoughts and let’s go
Round our way
Drabness wraps silent days
Buried beneath, I could be
Time to escape this forgotten place
This way to set motions
Pioneering experiences are rife
We should seek our recompense
We should escape to seek luminescence
We slide a pathway downwards
We slip on stones downwards
The supermarket lay dormant
Even the pound shops sag lazily
This way full of emotion
This way we cannot go
God hand a hope in hell
God deal out and show
Drabness wraps silent nights
Dull broken tower blocks sagging
Buried beneath I could be
Dull broken tower blocks flagging
The market is gone
The library fades from thoughts
The canal is filled with unwanted waste
The bars have barred-up broken windows
Long left the football team
The cemetery has been buried further
The old spire stands unsighted
Its stained-glass soul shattered
The locos are rusting beyond repair
The Vale’s trees collapse in gales
Brookdale, a car park of gas-heads
This way for our motion
This way we finally go
God hand us a chance to fly
God deal us a possibility
Directions
I’ve been stuck in standing traffic
After going twice around the roundabout
Unable to find my turn off
I turn into the wrong lane
Heading against the flow
Headlong into you
Intrusive Thoughts
Saturday was a tough day. Tough to get out of bed. Tough to put one leg in front of the other.
Heading to the ground, I suddenly felt the need to cry, and slip away somewhere alone. I’ve always found it easy to step back and find solace or pull myself up. Today felt different. It was as if some gremlin was hanging on my toes inviting me to slide under ground into a pool of blackness. I dropped my friend Nat a message and went for a refreshing wander. I thought about calling my best mate Dan and realised how much that I didn’t want to speak. I sat and stared at the bleak Ashton canal. Its uninviting tones warned away those beyond water. I peered at leaves and their array of colours. Autumn’s cooler breezes had arrived.
Motivation is limited. I feel energy levels have sapped. I don’t want to do anything. It seems like every day is a push against a wall that won’t budge. I have so much to live for. I have so much to be responsuible for. I am incredibly lucky. Yet, the coolness of autumn and the shedding leaves feel unwelcome right now. I know days and nights will improve. I believe things will get easier but today, like Saturday, it is okay not be okay. A cliche maybe. But, that is how I feel.
Negativity at football seemed magnified. Impatient fans failed to cloke their dislike for Nunes and Nico. Neither did much wrong. Both put in a shift. I felt like turning on fellow fans. Instead I applauded those players louder and more passionately. Armchair and stand managers should still back their team, no matter who wears the shirt. It didn’t improve my mood. Then I pondered calling Dan again but realised I had no desire to talk. Sorry Dan, miss you matey.
I want to thank my friends at City, the ones I bumped into and nattered to, and remained with after the game for a while. Chatting to my mates, I happened upon a chance to talk to and get a programmed signed by the modest and splendid poet and author Lemn Sissay (OBE FRSL). His book Tender Fingers in a Clenched Fist has always stood out in my mind. Rain is another example that I can’t forget. And Daz, for the lift to Gateshead to see City draw with Newcastle Utd in the Subway Butty League Cup – and win a bonus point 7-6 on penalties. Daz, Haguey, Alison, Hagred and co have kept me sane for the last few years of football. A great bunch that have distracted me. I love my friends and those I encounter at work, at football, and in my life. They make me stronger and I hope they feel my heart.
And back to Saturday morning, collecting Astrid at the newly opened North View mental health hospital at Crumpsall. It was opened by Ricky Hatton. I couldn’t help think about his departure from life. I was born in Crumpsall, and I caught my vision and thoughts about my own mortality. I fear death. I have too much left to do. I also know how close the fine line between here and the next life appears. That void or whatever you believe isn’t far away. And at Crumpsall as I waited for my sister. I found my overactive mind imagining the ripple effect of my death. It hurt. It shook me. I questioned my own mind. It scared me. I’m not ready. I have much to do.
I played football again tonight. I didn’t want to play. I felt numb. I went to clear my head and pull my socks up. So, what now? Think I’ll call Dan tomorrow.
Hunt’s Pot (by Pen-y-Ghent)
Beneath the grasses: legs held dangling,
Soft earthly ledges of rich limestone with pure airflow.
The smooth voyage by rail no trouble at all
With striding pathways of steel, through vales of appeal,
across lands cast in green carpets. Beneath cloudless skies
Which beam light into deep crags, the cracked fragmented
Grounds of eternity. Dramatic streams fade from surface
To run a course beyond that of passing eyes, under
Forgotten routes beyond roots. From within the crack
Above life embraces opportunity and greenery reaches upwards
Tumbling automatically without consideration.
Its eagerness to devour air and grow stronger.
Survival of beasts under leafy drapes and salient
Canopies of loath shade across clumsy stacks of statuary shattered stone.
This emerald-laced cauldron sways with breezes lightly.
Winds have bombarded, ice has frozen the past, and much matter
has been dispelled. But today, in the soft sun, this Hunt’s Pot
is Heaven on Earth. Savage not now.
Vagrant.
I see myself in the faces of the homelessness.
I see the long stares and uncertainty in their eyes.
They are we and we are them.
Treading a fine line between have and have not.
I see the hunger, desperation, and worry.
I see the lost love, the failed support, and a state that has abandoned.
They are we and we are them.
The line so fine it hangs on a cliff edge.
I see the need for help and belonging.
I see the pathway to drowned dreams in pools of booze.
They are what we are and we are what they are.
The fine thread line dangling from a torn jacket.
I see the hope in your eyes when human kindness embraces.
I see the joy when words are heard.
You’re like me and I’m like you.
The line between have and have not closer than you know.
I hear your songs, your rants at pigeons, and your belly rumble.
I hear your tears near-silently fall to the floor.
You are me and I am you.
The damn line we crawl in life.
I feel it all.
But not as they do. Not yet.
Maybe soon.
And you’ll be like me, just like you.
And I’ll be you.
Lost in Nature
Lost in nature, we forgot the time; Chasing mountain hares along a line; Admiring butterflies hanging on fine; This was a day where we forgot the time.
Let out until darkness, we lost our way; Plenty of words we could speak and say; Through flags full of colour we did pray; This was a day we could play our way.
Under stars that shone down on us; Hands in hands feeling the buzz; Taking the moments, each one a plus; Not one feeling deemed superfluous.
These were the places, the times, and the escapes; Swallowed within sprawled landscapes; Every connection spans and takes shapes; These moments, these memories: wonderful escapes.
Summer ’25: VIII – “Hello A.C., my old friend…”
Guangdong didn’t miss me. Nor I missed Guangdong. The mosquito feeding service resumed, probably, as the train doors slid open. “Attack! Attack! Attack!”
Luofushan is a big bulging expanse of subtropical mountain. Swallowed by managed parkland, concrete and stone passages loop and weave its sides. Temples, museums, and a cable-car ropeway dot the landscape amongst entertainment options like a jungle chair ride and multiple fish food vending machines. Huizhou’s economy is further boosted by passionfruit and banana sales at the gate. Cold tofu desserts add other sweet options. Water is essential. The big expanse commands your appetite.
In regards of appetite, a giant chicken restaurant, for consumption of regular-sized roast chickens was the final stop of the day. The playground, climbing walls, balance wires, and swings afterwards tested hands and feet, and possibly full bellies too. A decent enough end to a day of bug-spotting (including bee eggs for sale – as food). The stadium-sized chicken restaurant was stupendously busy and barely a quarter of it was open. Must avoid a fully-booked attendance.
“No one can construct for you the bridge upon which precisely you must cross the stream of life, no one but you yourself alone.” – Friedrich Nietzsche, otrovert
Heated up, overly tired, and distracted, we headed up GaoBangShan again. My mood was odd, angry (and not just at City losing to Spurs), and I should not have gone out. The distant lightning storm to the west was not just a metaphor. I really was starting to feel upset that soon I’d be leaving to the U.K. My emotions and behaviour were inexcusable. Hot heads can’t cool in heat. I had to apologise for being petty and silly.
“When anger rises, think of the consequences.” – Confucius (孔子Kǒngzǐ)
Time slipped away fast and no sooner had I arrived back in Guangdong, it seemed I was on a plane heading for Manchester, via Cairo. Time really is precious.
“How did it get so late so soon? Its night before its afternoon. December is here before its June. My goodness how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon?” – Dr. Seuss, controversial author.

Summer ’25: 37:13 of railway travels.
There:
0838 Huiyang > Guangzhou South 1:18
1057 GZ South > Yangshuo 2:34
1321 Yangshuo > Guiyang North 3:07
1533 Guiyang East > Chengdu East 3:45
0909 Chengdu East > Guangtong 6:24
1622 Guangtong > Dali 1:08
1147 Dali > Shangri-la 4:19
22:35
And back again:
1200 Shangri-la > Dali 2:15
1413 Dali > Nanning 6:34
1128 Nanning > Guangzhou South 2:45
1430 GZ South > Huiyang 1:20
14:38
Lured
I’m lured to this corner, for what reason I do not know.
Tempted by all senses.
Drawn out of my shadows and head unburied.
The sand parts for my steps.
Distant engines roar into activity, tensing my every muscle.
Hope sits at the departure lounge.
A new day awaits, fresh with pineapple juices and greenery.
I return to you.
Battle.
Read my eyes. Read them carefully.
I heard you. I really got your gist.
I’m not talking. My words are silent.
I am trying to think. And block out your sounds.
I heard every little thing. I am not deaf.
Why are you so unkind? Don’t you see me?
Look at my face. Read the expression.
A plethora of scribbled emotions. Keep out of my path.
Think I’m deaf, do you? Look at me.
Look closer. See my body raging.
See that deep upset. I won’t speak.
I don’t want to erupt. I am close.
I have plenty to say. I hold back.
You push me and push me. And some more.
Keep on pushing and pushing. Pushing the hate.
Nothing positive to say? Thought not.
Can’t you shut up? Think of better words.
Don’t I have feelings? You hurt me.
You really have made me sad. Unbelieveably angry.
I count. Don’t I?
Outside in.
How do you find yourself when part of you seems lost or missing?
What if being different is the thing you ignore: your greatest strength?
How far into the abyss would you go to protect someone you love?
What if the world doesn’t make sense, would you still abide by the conventional rules?
What if the bravest thing you can be is yourself and no-one else?
Can your gentlest whisper say more than your loudest shout?
Where do you turn when you feel that you don’t fit in anywhere?
Who said being a mature grown-up had to be anything like perfect?
When everything feels torn and twisted, can you still believe in hope?
Is there only one way of life (that’s your own)?
Calling
Farewell to the stars
My eyes blur with sleep
I don’t invite them on in
Nor do I allow their shouts
I couldn’t hear it
A misdeed so true
I couldn’t feel it
A transgression of angst
A silhouette I am
In a pale concrete box
A Pompeii blast-mark
Solitary without you
Unable to see you
Prevented from calling out
Unable to hear you
I could no longer call
No call possible
Answers no longer reachable
Fan Fair Play
Empty seats, Emptihad, plastic fans, not real supporters, glory seekers, 115 charges, and a plethora of yawn-inducing taunts later. Where were you when you were shit? Even Wrexham A.F.C. fans will get this with their outside investment…
Many fans say oil club this, oil club that. But, it seems to me that these City owners are the progressive people who are putting their money into other things and getting away from oil dependency. Yes, it is still there, but electric cars in Abu Dhabi are less reliant on black gold from the ground. The provision into alternative uses of land through social housing, football, community aspects, and so called washing of wealth is a controversial one. Are Lloyds Bank, Barclays, or the British government less contentious in their investment habits?
Would East Manchester be improved without the Abu Dhabi commitments? Would new parks in Ancoats and the preservation of derelict hospital and mill fronts be a reality? Thay once stagnant area is a mesh of community, life, and people. Yes, it isn’t fully accessible to everyone but where in Great Britain can you find an affordable home or alternative to homelessness and food banks? That’s a condition at a far higher level than overseas interests. One that England and its neighbours have been flogging beyond the shores for near eternity. Why enable your own people onto a property ladder? Cash in quick.
I am all for human rights. Completely for safety and security of innocent people. What’s worse: a country that executes the absolute bad eggs of society? Or, one that turns off the ability for its elderly to heat themselves in harshest winter? That same latter country drops bombs indirectly through third party holders and battlers. They also provide that weaponry to states that deliberately target civilians. I’m not saying executions are right, not at all, but surely when people exchange cultures and mix and match, they see a clearer picture of where works and what can be realised. Opportunity to change. To improve. The City Football Academy is the utopia of football development. What about Manchester being the bridge of internationalist progressive thinking?
I have never understood why so many people sat at keyboards look at short little numbers and comment on a few hundred empty seats (that likely have sold out). Is there attention groundbreaking? If tens, hundreds, or thousands choose not to turn up, is it worth a song or dance? Are they saying that Manchester City has no right to ambition, growth, and to sit at the top table with Glory, Glory Man United, Liverpool, or Arsenal? Should City look up at their consistently consistent pack of red cartel and stop trying to be better? All that effort to comment on seats. Have they not got anything better to do?
In my mind there is no shame in empty seats every now and then. In fact, the more the merrier. It needs to be seen. Empty seats means that the gaffers at the top made mistakes in pricing and accessibility for a fan base. They became detached and they instilled conditions that do not allow a working class game to connect with an increasingly instable pool of absolute diehards. “The game’s gone “, is one thing I’ve heard time and time again throughout this last decade. And that’s when we’ve won!
Empty seats shows the club, Manchester City, or whoever has lost touch with who we are. And, yes, supporters on their loyalty schemes, from all over planet Earth, may film those gaps. Will they be there when the proverbial turd hits the big skinny blades of a less-shiny fan? I’ll look after my sphere of influence, my mates, my family, my friends, the community of our Official Supporters Club, and whoever matters. That community has built up around us, our City, with us, for us, for City and our seats will be full when they’re full, or empty when unfortunately people get ill, stuff happens beyond their control, and so on. Life happens. You can’t bow down and let football dictate where you should be every day or week. Televised games, competition kick off times, and other factors have put that regularity to bed. It isn’t for the match goer. Losing touch with supporters and televised fixtures can be fixed. It can change. Let’s hope so.
Things happen beyond your control and if others want to sing and chant about how empty the Etihad is, or how akin to a library it can be, knock yourselves out. Good for them. Enjoy it. Right now, with two games to go, after a quiet standing area experience at Wembley, I’m reflecting and positive that good times will return. Football comes in cycles and runs, and staying at a top level, for so long, has been freakish.
The first team to win 4 Premier League titles four times in a row. A record. And like all numbers and statistics, things pass, and clubs have to rest and reset. As a City fan since birth, I feel no shame in losing to a much more hungry Crystal Palace squad. Luck has to be on your side at times but desire and graft get you over the line. I hope Palace fans, players, and the neutrals enjoy the trophy win. Those who rest on their laurels seek no opportunities. So, what now?

Looking down on fans for not attending games is snobbish. Not everyone in Manchester has access to disposable income. And, even when buying tickets it has consequence. How many meal tables are sacrificed for a Champions League night out with the family? Shame on all the pundits and papers for continuing to single out City fans for having the odd lower than capacity appearance. How often do they ignore the reduced allocation of an away club and draw attention to a segment of up in the rafter seats left unoccupied? The constant reference to City’s council house ground, in reference to City’s occupation of the former Commonwealth Games 2002 stadium was pitiful, and should be treated in the same vein as anyone referring to Liverpool fans as bin dippers or Scousers as favouring giros for supporting their living. Football banter and jibes are cruel at times. Until the changes of attitudes, empty seats on tour.
Response
You are married
You are far away
You are in my heart
You are in my soul
Forever ~
古
Williams Duo & Goodwin Too
Oh, hey now is this a sign?
Have I been here before?
Oh, why should I care?
You can hear the silence drone
I still thirst
I looked for some guidance
Some beauty in my heart
Trying to accept the person I am
God knows it ain’t easy
Who knows the reason why?
Seize the time
Here comes my day in the summer sun
On summer days like these
But it slips through
What did you want?
Out of time.
Out of time.
Spin, spun, twirl, and life has gone;
Gaze, glare, peer, asking all you love;
Vacantly, unoccupied, empty, an account declined.
Elapsed, faded, as ebbed time trickles away.
Endure.
This canvas captures my heart’s breath;
Stronger as remains blanket the grief.
Acts of kindness, love, and selflessness.
Portions of souls shared.
The best yet made.
Endure and carry on.
Farewell friend.
I want to thank you.
Thank you for opening my eyes.
Opening my eyes to a new lens.
A new lens capturing moments of time.
Moments of time caressing tender memories.
Caressing tender memories that led to this day.
Led to this day when we said farewell.
Said farewell to you and thank you.
Thank you for being here.

Harmony
Cruel hand deals twisted fate
Not seeking solace nor peace
Dealing a weighted deck of chaos
Shoving detritus unto the face
Only time heals the irate
Self-discovery lens.
We each have bad habits, and it isn’t my place to judge.
I ain’t ever smoked a cigarette, although I’ve breathed in far too many.
My not trying drugs is an issue I won’t ever budge.
Sometimes, my focus loses its antennae.
I am not an alcoholic although I do enjoy an odd drink.
I wouldn’t say I look to fight, even if I feel ready for a hit.
I like to avoid conflict, passing on kicking up a stink.
I can not tell a good joke or come across as full of wit.
I try to give more than I take. Whatever it may cost.
I prize friendship over profits.
I treasure memories but worry about opportunities lost.
I get frustrated at times. Throwing all kinds of fits.
“I’m not a racist but…” No. Not all all. I hate racism.
I’d like to protest but found my hands tied up.
I question capitalist ways, leaning my ears to socialism.
A bully bullies because they’re bullied and hold no club.
I am, however, a disappointment.
I am a disappointment.
I am.
Drawers.
At the bottom of the unit lies a spring-loaded drawer with all my deepest and darkest utterings and thoughts.
Above that, another drawer, less-sealed, more-opened to tuck away memories warm and cold.
On top of the metaphorically wooden system, a drawer for the here and now. It has future dreams, brewing, and stewing.
One drawer shut tightly contains a world of marvellous thoughts.
Above it is an open shelf of optimism. A sliding glass door keeps in contained. Often, it is open just a tiny sliver.
Sometimes, just sometimes, I can keep everything, but what I need closed.
Mostly, however, my drawers are left open with socks and underpants spilling all over the floor.
If I were Napoleon, I’d shut the drawers and nod off.
I’m not Napoleon.
Immigration.
Wouldn’t mind more migration and less borders.
Wouldn’t mind a little less bombing interventions overseas.
Wouldn’t mind peaceful values and ideals before responses get dished out.
Wouldn’t mind capitalism paying more taxes and seeking less havens.
Wouldn’t mind a shoulder to cry on.
Wouldn’t mind a living wage and more opportunities.
Wouldn’t mind fewer inequalities and a smidgen of hope.
Wouldn’t mind a hand of help reaching out to those who need it.
Wouldn’t mind thoughts before actions.
Wouldn’t mind understanding before judgement.
Wouldn’t mind smiles over frowns.
Wouldn’t mind less wealthy controlling corporations.
Wouldn’t mind a boom in small traders.
Wouldn’t mind dreams and dreamers discussing ideals and progress.
Wouldn’t mind more and more and more and more trees.
Wouldn’t mind water so clean you can paddle and drink in the freshness.
Wouldn’t mind the words and wisdom of the deceased generation that loved us all.
Wouldn’t mind no babies in hospitals, displaced by bombs, disease, and warmongering criminality.
Wouldn’t mind translators and cultural exchange bringing people closer.
Wouldn’t mind change.
How about you?
Christmas Eve
They’re sharing family Christmas photos;
Wishing you all well and greetings for the seasons.
Yet, here, without you, I’m incomplete.
My family’s come is shattered beyond reasons.
The glimmer of hope like the slim chance of snow on a warm winter’s evening;
The last bus approaches on a pathway surrounded by emptiness.
A lone blackbird sings beneath a damp lamppost;
Touched in the heart, I am not in all fairness.
I envy and feel bitter to those who have it all;
I feel happy for each and everyone enveloped in family.
Yet, here, without you, I’m still incomplete.
For too long now, I suffocate in calamity.
Wreaths hug doors and trees sparkle in light;
Hearing carols on the street, my stomach flutters.
Yet, there and here, I cannot find a way out;
I feel bleakness, struggling to rise from the gutters.
To be found.
I used to smile.
Instead, my face creases like contours from a map.
I used to laugh.
Now jokes pass over me like Arctic winds on the tundra.
I used to chuckle and gleam.
It’s all replaced by a seemingly eternal cold emptiness.
I used to preach hope.
But for all its worth, I let go of that dream.
Before today, I was strong.
I slink down beneath a door frame, unable to open the handle, and let myself in.
Before today, I sought new songs.
Yet now most seem overplayed and all the same: repeat after repeat after repeat.
Before today, I had ambitions.
They slipped away, leaving an endless string of survival day by day.
Before today, I loved the rain.
Now, I greet umbrellas and raincoats and wellies as sanctuary.
Where is the old me?
Lost, maybe.
To be found.
An end.
Stones roll inwards;
Passing fiercely;
Slamming down violently;
Smashing all in its pathway;
Tossing and turning;
Without discrimination;
Rupturing creation.
Turning solid shapes to shards;
Presenting passage;
From life to the beyond;
Savage and cleansing constructs.
An end.
This land: home.
Vikings raided, settled, and persuaded;
Flags waved, distances faded.
Outliers passed over seas – islanders no more;
Old words and legends floated on seas of time.
Joy and separation folded together;
Historic sights of sites recalled;
Steps go up, and up, and up;
These dots of green on rock feed our souls.
This land: home.