Winter in Newcastle seems to me far more like glorious spring than any of the shivering complainers, busy news anchors or weather worn workmen seem to realise. If only they could muster the courage to face the driving wind head on and square shouldered, they would appreciate the reinvigorating qualities inherent in the North East's particular brand of prolonged chill. When the snow is heavy and driving, they must learn to revel in it! It is as criminal to maintain eye contact with the pavement during this winter spectacle as it is to walk with eyes closed through a spring forest, thick with boundless, budding new growth. Just as the joyous, youthful forest thins towards its edges to allow the pale sun's rays to dapple and dance across the neck and back, so the blizzard eases and snowflakes die tenderly on eyelashes and cheek tops. To some, the allure of springtime is rebirth and renewal, a time to start over. I say look around you! Every house is transformed from a red bricked, mundane doppelgänger sitting cosily amongst identical neighbours to a majestic white beast, with curves of snow and spines of ice. For a month or so each house is covered in billions of unique crystals which collectively announce it's singular shimmering, transitory individuality. The fields of spring are no doubt charming. It is easy to lose yourself in the gentle hum of new life, the drowsy smell of grass very close to the nose. Newcastle's parks and fields hold an all together more captivating charm whilst under winters grip. The stark tundra, when glimpsed with the aid of the low white morning sun provide the most brilliant blank canvass. The mind which could easily grow lazy when presented the scene early on a balmy spring day is, in winter, alert and racing. No insects drone or frivolous birdsong congests the ears and the eyes have even less to occupy them. The result being that every sound is magnified and crisp and each image is clear and sharp focused. So to everyone tucked away, remove yourselves from hibernation early! Spring is pleasant yes, but presently it is winter and it is beautiful. Get outside! Leave your scarves at home, unbutton your coats and soak up every detail. There will be plenty of time for lounging around come the next season.

What's in the bag, man! I'm on the hunt for the perfect fix and there is little time to waste. Don't give me distortions, illusions and droopy fixtures. I'm not searching for spiritual lifts or empathy, compassionate conversations or time lapse. I don't want to run for miles, hair wild and pupils hungry. I have no use for dancing, talking, fucking or sleep.

Don't get me wrong, man! I will take every substance, discovered or otherwise, as fuel for my quest. Up and down and through the roof if needs must. I think this is the kind of high you need to search out in the hidden, forbidden places. I am driven to distraction for want of this fix, man.

I will visit life's dankest crevices and run my tongue down every terrible ravine. With a gnawing patience I'll sit waiting on any clue  for millennia in the most lonely forests. I will put the torch to a thousand cities and scan each handful of ash with a desperate, roving eye.

I want pure white light, instant and unending and I am willing to pay any amount.

What's in the bag, man? I suppose we will see soon enough.

Waking hours are cold, hard and remorseless.
Distraught afterthoughts constantly battle cruel logic.
Force back constructions of pure white goodness.
Whip the head into line before the heart objects.
Both eyes and best foot forward, resolute.
What shirt shall I wear. Which pub to visit?
Beguile, force smiles, never look destitute.
An awful scam, and your all complicit!

Dancing for pennies. Rocks and hard places! Exhale, close eyes and try. Tory meritocracy encourages success, failure to impress emotionless rat-ocrats! Weather takes a turn for the worse! Snide trout clouts clot, narrow eyes miss well tied early hearse! No news is good news! Poison pen letters proclaim shame, let blood and maim through perfectly aimed paper cuts! The future is bright! Royal blue and choleric yellow congeal to a solid envy green mass: Crass, oppressive and toxic to the fledgling prole masses!

Failed state.
The factory gates swing on rusted hinges,
A solitary light hums atop a blasted tower block.
Melancholic reminder of a bright and blossoming past existence.

Awful failed state.
Lawmen slake thirst through hateful binges,
Literature or spectacles enough to get one shot.
The fields groan under the weight of bodies and unwritten verse.

Inky failed state.
Subversive thinking instantly abated,
By black masked agents intent on pain or,
Atavistic plain clothes wardens and a swift train to the torture gardens.

Tragic failed state.
Beggars faces glimpsed through broken glass,
Old friends, once warm, now twisted, mean and cold.
Souls buckled, bent and sold. Constitutions irredeemably scarred.

Burning failed state.
Molten plastic and hate fill the most benign institutions.
Fire men, ex guardians, torch the streets in angry convulsions.
Bells no longer toll. Eyes sting, filled with tears and acrid pollution.

Hopeless failed state.
Allies smolder or cower behind borders.
Resources long gone, hoarded or burnt by vengeful marauders.
The unburied dead totemic, remorseless, remind the living that death is fate.

Life! The infant is an empty vessel!

A chasm which most fill conventionally,

Work and food and love, potentially,

Pristinely stacked, both neat and level.

Strife and joy are succinctly wrestled,

Society’s laws obeyed reverentially.

Accepted norms form useful allies.

The child evolves to nothing special.

But there are other ways, blank booked bairn!

Civilisation, unnatural construction,

Break to bits and burn in your pit!

Upon hearing you’ve a deal to learn,

Renew with vigour life destruction!

Fill your days with venom, chaos and spit.

Dim rippling light rolls up from wall to ceiling, then back. The bouncer roves menacingly and single minded, like a fat headed shark, heralded by a blue orb which, upon contact with quids, or bodies quivering and rigid, struck mute by agonising biblical visions informs its master who duly devours currency or casualty. Each task is preceded by the vaguest of emotions, the face rolling from neck area practiced in betraying little. Close observation is necessary to establish even a glimpse of humanity. The leer forming on the corner of the mouth perhaps, when crudely acknowledging a familiar pair of thighs, or the hunger in the pupils, just before full dilation, in anticipation of the exertions soon to be inflicted upon the kid, silhouetted in their peripheral vision, grinning and flailing on the bar. These human subtleties are vastly overshadowed by blunt animal instinct. A circle forms in the enraptured crowd. And before even the first futile blow is struck, dense black ghosts and wraiths descend, slicing through bodies like water. Rapidly advancing in perfectly straight lines upon the unfortunates, about to pay terrible prices for vainly leaving the hot certainties of the collective. The venue lights flicker on and these wild, predatory men seem tamed, still alert, but glazed and sated. It is over. The frigid night air seems strangely comforting to the flock spilling out the double doors from the furnace within.

It is a popular misconception that the exits are flung wide when there is no more music left, when the bars must stop serving or when the tired patrons concur that fear and night have closed in too far, and they must hurry back and huddle in half-lit rooms. In fact, no DJ, worker or patron holds sway here. They have no say, they are drawn in by shiny lures, flashes and beats deep in the dark recesses. In turn, on gantrys, stairwells and balconies, aroused by the blood and smell of sweat, dark shadows circle, twitch and wait. The sharks are in control here. It is only when each has gorged that anyone can leave.