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  • Writer's pictureJacob Davies

AN OPEN BROADCAST TO THE FORLORN...


Good evening, folks, friends, foes... and all in between.


I write to you, yet again, on the anniversary of when it all changed, but stayed the same... the second anniversary of my first published collection 'The Things They've Never Seen'.


I will not write of my ever-growing, ever-flowing pride for my first collection, for you've heard it all before. I will instead provide a short update from the floor of the editing room.


The UK tour took a small hit last week, as did I, for reasons ultimately out of my control, it is just unfortunate the steering wheel was also out of my control.

Anyway.

The tour will recommence next week starting with a date in Pudsey tomorrow, and following that, dates in Bradford, Morley, Derby, Pontefract, Barnsley and Manchester still to come. These are all that is giving me an ounce of life.


Tickets to the showpiece events in Morley and (Ponte Carlo) Pontefract are still available below, should you wish to subject yourself to endless November nights, and bright lights.


But yes. 'The Things They've Never Seen', is two years old. How wonderful. There may be news of a re-issue of this work coming in the new year... but what do I know about my own life? Very little.


Whilst I am here, I must give my sincere thanks to both the Wakefield Express and the Yorkshire Bylines for their tremendous coverage of the tour in recent weeks. I'm very thankful.

I am due to record a full, unedited podcast interview in the coming weeks, which should appear wrapped on your doorsteps just before Christmas - avoiding any postal strikes.


2023 bobs its head into eyeshot, and with it, brings incredulity, existential dread and pain in equal measure.

Next year will see more live dates, published work both in print and (shudder) digitally and some new recordings of poems.

Somehow, even here, as I am... I am socially spent, yet creatively, I have much more to give.


Will I see you there?

I do hope so.


Jacob.


AM I ALLOWED TO SAY

Crisp and moody grey skies

Settle calmly, and match the colour of the devil’s red eyes

Here, as the slow caution of dusk embraces the moon

Am I allowed to say…?


Lovely blackening skies, made for goodbyes

Eliminating the glass pretence of flagrant butterflies

I fly the flag for the disappearing afternoon

Am I allowed to say…?


Mid-morning white paint, clinical skies

I did the usual lie; I said everything was fine

My head spins a tail, and tames a shrew

Am I allowed to say…?


Off run hours, sinking drinks that taste like

Knowing where summer goes and, a lost dog’s breath on ice

Fraught, tired - sending days back to June

Am I allowed to say…?


The next thing to kill the turtles, awakes from the mud

Because nothing at all in life, is ever any good

And yet,

I can see my fate in your face, a spluttering of sighs

I think, at last I now know why I stayed alive

And so, can I speak what is true?

Am I allowed to say…?


Hand me a card, an emergency number to escape trouble

Where after 7pm the calls cost double

And yet,

Even as I am, fixated to the shelf

I could as soon forget myself

As to forget you.

Am I allowed to say…?


Time has hardened the softer edges

And drawn my wandering eyes towards high window ledges

And yet,

You seem to complete all

The silly half ideas in my head

But I avoided the question the first time

And I shall do so again.


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