Picture this:

a happy man.

A man as happy as boy 

in sand: playing

mischief in both

good and bad:

the evil of

fun and the 

fun, bloodied 

handsomely of 


heaved and

leavened and

heavened and

severed from all 

chord umbilical:


and sound.

And this happy man

has begun to

find his trace in the

grandest city ever 

there is: the city of

terrible ninety


And this happy man

is so happy here,

amongst the memory

of tragedy borne proud, 

where no

one need lonely because 



when alone, he finds

no solitude: just a place

and a space 

to w

here his hat

freely, and jig along 

and jig beside the music of 

shop and street 


To my best year of

all: thank you

Liverpool, my 


Where near and

dear have sadly gone and

failed me,

and I have failed 

them just as much, just

as miserably, 


have shown 

me how

to stand right tall:

to never walk alone, 

to never walk small.

And in fact you

are red, but also blue

for true: and all 

you have and all 

you are 


never be 

too much for me …

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