Lazy Gramophones Journals

Nothing profound sounds this polite and wiry. No cures allowed; They're all around everybody but nobody's telling Selling instead. Could live off this stuff Snort it when lost for words, When feelings pour towards the exit forgetting Resigned from upsetting only pretending to talk, Our intentions are falling; Lethargic from throats dry and sore From too much nothing. Resonant with withdrawn and clouded in cursing Niggling smashed little grace in The pretty face, Hateful and spiteful, Despite each early morning's new born lie smiling Heart-breaking out from inside my I'm, it's a? fine Line between the hoops hanging... read more

That moment of confluence past, only a diligent reflection of the stars upon our clear skin contrasts these currents of feeling creeping between us. A voice drifts in the dark, cold as the moon quiet as the arch of a fin callous as the cracks appearing from within the beds of our lips; a sun-dried apathy. Stagnant puddles litter the fall of each balding crest the dissolution of the lightness of our veil the birth of legs. As if a tear, cast beneath the yellow of morning your silver blanched, a glassy silhouette. Our blood riven a river silenced returned to the air an echo of despair and the weight of my steps. ... read more

Abby Stokes blinked her sleep-swollen eyes and looked at the man-shaped object where her dressing gown hung. Squinting in the half-light, she made out that the man-shaped object was indeed a man and immediately she was wide awake. "I've come for you Abigail," said the man. "It is time." Abby fixed the man in her gaze. Her fingers grasped around on her bedside table, searching for anything that resembled a weapon and grabbed hold of the first solid object they found. It was an Ikea lamp with little silver feet. She held it out in front of her, a foot in each hand. "What do you want?" she asked. "You must come with me, said the man, "for... read more

And so it continued after that night. The Blobs were here to stay; he had long accepted that. Despite the occasional moments of frustration, the intense bouts of confusion, The Blobs also brought an all consuming feeling of focus and peace to his senses: The Blobs found him, the lost-and-long-wandering Boy, they collected his scattered thoughts and cradled his troubled head; they soothed his aching limbs and gave fluidity to his movements. They seemed to bridge the endless and throbbing rift between his world and that world of Others. No longer stagnant, he now danced through the in-betweens with ease. All things appeared possible,... read more

Her blonde pours from the great doors and from the windows, falls from the lamps hung like my head at this hour, carves a path straight through the absence of light. Not a single car nor even a voice, only my shadows sow time tonight. The air rakes at my feet as I drag them through the invisible scores of braced eyes all been planted deep within our history. A mutany of mind. It's soft the sunlight but cold and so old and it sings while this morning attempts to rise lullabies above the slow forming crowds. Inside my distance I sit. Wait once again watch hidden by tired. Have been given another day on which... read more

Once upon a time there was a young boy named Sompop. He liked to play in the woods near his home and would always run to his mother with tales of the interesting new creatures he 'd seen. The first time he saw a stoat his mother heard the story a hundred times. One day, he was climbing up a thick tree searching for birds' nests, when a big crow startled him and he fell to the floor and bumped his head. He awoke with a headache and sat on a stump for a while. He rooted through his knapsack to find the bone he had found earlier on, so that he could scratch some more mud out of it. He wanted it clean so he could keep it. In amongst... read more

Melvin never made any friends. Not only was he extraordinarily shy, he was small for his age, had unusual hair (which felt and looked a little like a rusty cheese-grater), he blushed at the slightest thing, and, to make matters worse, there were paving slabs that were more athletic than Melvin. He was an easy target, so preoccupied was he with his ruminations that he rarely noticed his classmates. Even when one dedicated peer sat down next to him and spent the entire double Maths lesson chewing graph paper and spitting the tiny balls into Melvins velcroesque coif. It was four hours later when, by happenstance, he caught his reflection in... read more

Melvin never made any friends. Not only was he extraordinarily shy, he was small for his age, had unusual hair (which felt and looked a little like a rusty cheese-grater), he blushed at the slightest thing, and, to make matters worse, there were paving slabs that were more athletic than Melvin. He was an easy target, so preoccupied was he with his ruminations that he rarely noticed his classmates. Even when one dedicated peer sat down next to him and spent the entire double Maths lesson chewing graph paper and spitting the tiny balls into Melvins velcroesque coif. It was four hours later when, by happenstance, he caught his reflection in... read more

I will not bend, and so, does that mean I should be broken? Because to me bending is more painful than breaking, is an endurance I am not prepared for. Too often, the only attempt at making sense from death is suffering. Too often, we believe that anything less in life is a blessing, is a gift. Therefore, as we try to hold on to our perceptions, of the expected, of what it is to be satisfied; so it becomes... time that dreams of the next minds, of all the things we will not see. 'I Will Not' can be found within Sam Rawlings' book of poetry Circle Time, which is currently available from the Lazy Gramophone Shop . To read more... read more

A yellow puddle adrift the persistence, lock of hair, of refuge accorded the blinking sky. My light of air. Town of teeth and darkness, another haunted morning, echoes of a thousand feet, black eyes and perfect manes, the sound of our pause, the sound of change. My weight a damn of silence against the roar of space. She stands with balanced lips, our seesaw aches. My ashen canvas curled beneath her as if a feather fallen, line of chalk, a single flame drawn from the pale of dawn she hesitates. 'Rebel' can be found within Sam Rawlings' book of poetry Circle Time, which is currently available from... read more