The kids need shoes.

December 19, 2011 § Leave a comment


“Maria came from Nashville with a suitcase in her hand.”- High Lonesome – Gaslight Anthem. 

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I need it. Constantly. The light, the sound. The feeling that the whole world is on the end of my fingers. The feeling that I could save the world not by shooting my enemies down, or slow political process, or standing on top of a war-ravaged  hill waving a ripped flag underneath a torn sky still wet from the battle, but my sitting in a warm room. At a computer. The internet. Dead are the battles. Dead are the wars. No one fights for real anymore. Not like they used to. Other than the soldiers. No one works. Other than the laborers. Millions sit in front of the internet everyday and fail to take advantage of the tool. Don’t get me wrong, for a second. I understand that this is no trumpet call over a lost battlefield. I understand that. But the fact is, and it’s relevant. At-least-I’m-letting-go. This is mine and I’m making it yours. This isn’t online banking or shopping or applying for a job. This is an attempt to make you smile or think or laugh or cry or something. Anything. You name it. I don’t know. Shit. I would of done it with music if I could. Fuck it I still could.

I don’t feel Christmas this year. The skeleton king has overstayed his welcome in my head. Jack’s where the bell’s should be. Jack’s where half the blood should be. Not for the first time.  Christchurch, New Zealand, is my location. Well, not Christchurch as such, South New Brighton. On the coast. That long straight sea view is dragging in on this hang-over. It’s starting to play tricks. The worst ones always do. They wait till that point when you’ve been up a few hours, when you think that you’ve shaken off the worst of it, physically that is, that dull ache in the kidneys subsides and the rattle in the head passes through your hair. That’s when it gets you. The worst. They bite. It starts quiet at first. But slowly and surely it turns the screws. The stronger the spirit the tighter the turns. That solid self-security that defined the period after your teenage years and stuck around ever since, takes a nap for a while. Shields down. Deferences unmanned. That’s when it gets. Dance. The best dance, and swerve, and sort it. Make the good thoughts count and shrug the bad ones away. “That girl doesn’t like you.” – “You’re a fucking nobody.”-“You’re a shitty writer and a shitty person, fuck you.”. The bad apply more vitiman alcohol. I apply as much common sense as I have left from the night before. Get some sleep. You’ll be fine.

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Another bag of bones.

December 11, 2011 § Leave a comment


That’s his automatic rifle and it tells no lies.” – Kevin DevineAnother bag of bones

It reaches a point – with everything – where you draw the line in your head. “That’s it” you say, “I have had enough” and you step away from whatever it is you are in the fall out from. Be it alcohol, heroin, cocaine, a girl, a boy, a job, a car, a fucking dog whatever. “I’m done.” you say. And the you watch yourself walk away. A pack and a half a day. Throwing up on the way to work. All that is behind me. I would like to hope that one day I will look back at this and smile, or shudder, or just be able to look back.

Forgetting how to remember but learning how to learn.

December 3, 2011 § Leave a comment


If only to say this to myself, go easy.” – Ryan Adams and the Cardinals. 

It was around 5am local time when I stumbled off the plane from JFK. It’s cold in Heathrow but not as cold as it could be. I have already been sick twice. I should have learnt by now that drinking and being drunk are not cures for jet-lag. I have a bit mark on my arse and scratches on my back. Is it bed time? Or daybreak? Whatever it is, I’m going to need another drink just to level out and see this whole situation a little more straight. New York always does this to me. Vodka, double, furnished lounge in an airport. Around me stag-dos and in matching bright shirts are greeting the morning in the same way as me. Business men are reading papers and acting like they don’t want a beer. Mcdonalds is doing a roaring trade despite the early hour. At times it feels like airports are timeless, that’s not the case though, it’s just there’s so many different times running around. Different bodies on different clocks. Tick tocking away. Some was alcohol when some want orange juice. Some want toast when others want meat. Some want sex when others seek cigarettes. It’s a strange metaphor in a way, as if to say that not everyone will be fitting under that same umbrella. We are too many, too different, even if we are all waiting for the same thing. That shiny plane that will take us away from this place to the next step on the journey. If there is destination to be arrived at, or even a plane, or even a journey. This metaphor is becoming stretched. I’m starting to see the long thin white scars in the text. My body is pushing and pulling in all directions, wanting the best from each body clock. Usually in this state I bottom out, reset, wake up and go from there. It’s London. It’s the morning. It’s approaching Christmas. I could go down to Camden and watch the acts. No, I will go to Oxford Street, find a bar, drink till I’m steady, eat, write it up, then hit the sack around 10. Where ever that may be. If home is where I hang my hat that not only do I need to find a peg but I’m also going to need a hat.

No Longer an Astronaut.

Simon Blake.

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