The narrowing of aim.

March 24, 2012 § Leave a comment

“Percy Shelly down to Marxs” Al Baker – Thank god I’m an atheist. 

It’s a little confusing. It’s a little hard sometimes. It’s up and down. Sometimes life isn’t all yellow and blue. Sometimes life is purple and that’s OK for some people. Some people like purple. Some people accept purple. For them purple is OK. That’s fine. But the ones you want to stick with. The ones you want to learn from. The ones you want to be. Are the ones who chase the colour they want. The ones who say “Fuck purple”. Don’t let your life be purple. You can stop it being purple. I’m not saying be a fucking hippy and eat shadows and piss. I’m not saying don’t get a job. I’m not saying don’t pay taxes or get a mortgage. I’m saying no one said your life had to be purple. Or some shit. You know when you have a point and you are just desperately trying to hold on to. To keep that train on track, as it picks up too much speed and starts to sway and jackknife. Before you know it. Your off the track. Lying in the land that no one wanted to build houses on because of the tracks and trains. Lying in the old horse land next to the dining cart. It helps that, when these thought trains leave the tracks, that you are on your own. You don’t want to be lying next to someone you know, let alone love, in a field in the sticks in the middle of shitsville. On your back in the dark. Confused and bleeding, noticing the lack of light pollution. This is one of those. This is me lying in a field. This is the loud loud whistling of disaster. That rattle that picks and picks to the unbelievable.  The only thing that follows the noise, when it reaches that point where it shakes you till your eyes clothes and your bones vibrate, is silence. Clean like water. The stars and silence and a night on his back in a dark field in old horse land is what follows a man who let go trying to turn his life away from purple.



Bark with no bite.

March 11, 2012 § Leave a comment

“And when I’m here I’m home.” – Wessex Boy – Frank Turner. 

The cigarette smoke was thick, and lonesome and twisting away into the light up and away into the night sky. It was leaving but at least it was mine. I remember girls. I remember names and faces. I remember barely holding on in my brain. As hard as I could. Praying for a shot of redemption. This is it. This is me. “Help” screams that voice that pipes up on a hangover. I don’t need help. Not really. I’m fine, thank you. I think I’ve pulled it together enough to just make sure. My leg won’t stop going. Don Delillo kept me up. Don Delillo, Whiskey, me and a blinking midnight clock. Blood. There was blood, I remember that. On the walls. I’ve been chasing rivers. I remember that too. Blood and rivers. And talk. Too much talk from people who didn’t mean it. Bark with no bite. Words with no fight. If I was king such an act wouldn’t go unpunished, I would have them lined up and I would have them shot. The words are yours, the least you can do is mean them. Davey Jones can’t save us from drowning. 

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