She sees these visions. She feels emotion. She says that I cannot go, she sees my plane in the ocean.

January 26, 2015 § Leave a comment

With no singing, with no swinging to. There’s no dancing, there’s no missing you.” – Bright Eyes – I woke up with this song in my head this morning. 

I’d learnt a long time ago that when the moment gets hold of you there’s no time to pray that it never lets you go. Don’t waste the moment praying that it doesn’t pass, you’ll regret that. You don’t spend your fleeting moments of happiness pray that that creeping madness of sadness doesn’t take hold again. You could, but you should. Got to read more. Got to think more. Less tv. Less noise and sound and colours and shite in. Shite in shite out. More Hunter Thompson, less Jeremy Kyle. Less whiskey. And in that moment of laying down exactly what I need I realise that she’s just there to fill a void. It’s not a deep, sophisticated, emotion void. No. She’s a bad fix it job. She’s lost time and madness and loss prevention. She’s heartless and guttless and that suits me all the way down to my soul. That’s what I need. Drunk enough to dance. I’d forgot how to live. Just doing isn’t living. I need the pulse of other people. That’s the deal with me. For the new ones to meet the old ones. Hell have no fury like me lost and alone again. Actually, it’s not fury. It’s a response. It’s a defence mechanism. It’s me holding my knees and praying to god for safety. I write the words and hope to push them into sense in the morning. They’re not for you. They are for you. Or for me. Either way, I’m not going to try to make sense of this in the morning. I’m just going to push on through. Not read it. Smile. Hope to bleed less. Do less. Here comes the slack. Cut me clean. I need somewhere to point this madness.


The sun came out of nowhere, like a bar fight.

January 26, 2015 § Leave a comment

What if it’s all just jokes? Casper the holy ghost. What if it’s all just stones we get to throw.” – Kevin Devine – Between the concrete and the clouds. 

I waited for the drums to die out before I really started to think about what was going on. There’s no thinking to be done with the heavy rhythm so prominent at the forefront of my brain. The symbols smashed and the snare and the weight of that bass drum would have to cease. They did, and for the moment at least I was able to hold and form and move the thoughts around my head like unwanted food on a plate. Just pushing, no progress. I asked the same questions. I was stuck for the same lack of answers. I twiddled my thumbs and crossed my arms and breathed heavy and felt that temped frustration in the front right of my brain. Like dragging it all over carpet just in an attempt to feel something new. I’d smiled, I’d laughed, but I’d got no where. Was that the point? Was that the destination? No. It wasn’t. I’m in a lucky enough position to know what I want. Is that lucky? At least those who don’t know are afforded the blissful ignorance that allows them to dream. I’m stuck in the realisation that my salvation is not forthcoming and is boxed exclusively to one hope. One saviour. It all just became twisted wires along the way. That’s her problem. No fucking charm. No fucking love. I see it in her. I see the restless madness, I see the lost hope and the clinging and the wild eyed madness of a story that she thinks she’s finished but in actual fact is still just bleeding away. The story is her life, and it’s so far from over. Like mine. Like yours. Fuck, this one is starting to spin out of control.. Better pull it all the way back in here. The whiskey is starting to twist me all the way over. How I’ve come to feel a feeling of loss I don’t know. I miss her? Is that a thing. No you clinical fuck. You are emotionally stunted. You haven’t missed a person in years. When you did you were lying. You were exploiting and making capital. You are a cold hearted bastard. Just. Like. Everyone. Else. Fuck – Whiskey madness and blood dance. Things are about to get real weird around the – above the neck – region. My crooked mouth – my swollen tongue. For Brooklyn and madness and smith street and the way the statue of Liberty looks with the sun coming down behind it. The way it makes you feel as you trundle out of Manhattan. I’m pretty sure you could feel this one going of the rails. I’m pretty sure you could pull out your red marker and show the world where we started to slip with this one. It’s easy, you’re no talent, Freud would have a field day.

Let me stay ’till the morning I will sleep on the floor. And we can talk in circles no dollar figures, just what is owed and paid. Tonight’s not happening. When I got dry as a desert I got mean.

Tonight I am drinking all piece and warm.

The sun came out of nowhere, like a bar fight. And it knocked out the wind and it bruised me with light.

– And I felt grateful for living just like I feel tonight.

Simon Blake

No Longer an Astronaut.

You’ve it beat Sweetheart, until it beats you.

January 26, 2015 § Leave a comment

I’m buried by the buzz of a year gone numb.” – Buried by the buzz – Kevin Devine 

We whistled through our hangover. In the sync we were in we were passing up on the chance to really feel it. The form we were in we were well versed in passing this piss through our systems. It was second nature. Routine by now. It wasn’t a hangover so much any more as it was simply how we felt some mornings. It would pass by afternoon. It was our lives. It was how we coped with the problems that we constantly put in front of ourselves like so many way ward hurdles that we’d pray we’d make it over just to lay another one thick down in the way. We’d made our peace with whatever madness this was. We’d come to terms with those messy, poorly dressed, kids with bad haircuts who grew up to be us. Same haircuts, still dressed poorly, messy if not messier. We’d picked up some more baggage along the long way we’d come.

What can I say? I just love the way she looked. The way she moved her eyes. Fuck. After a little over two decades here I can say with as much authority as I can get away with that every now and then, every two years or so, you meet someone who just sings in your blood. They are to you how it feels to be young and drunk and in love. They’re that strange magic that you spend your days chasing in the hope that one day you can capture and keep. Hoping they stay around. As if that beautiful madness could become a regular fixture in your life. As if you could hold and keep that love and try and fit it into the measly 24 hours that make up your day. Hoping nothing spills over. Hoping so large, so important, so drasticly biblical can find a home in the mundane routine of your day. And the hope that the source of those feelings could feel the same about you. Now I’m no poet. I’m not great thinker or lover. I never pretended to be. But isn’t that it? Really? What we’ve all been chasing here? Isn’t that the carrot dangling over our heads. If I was to here to offer hope I would say this; If you haven’t found that feeling, if you don’t know it, if those words ring only in the context of hollow adulthood not allowing for the creeping madness of youth to smother out the cynicism, then you have no idea how close it is to being around the corner for you. You’re over due. Remember the last time? Remember how much it fucked you up? Remember how, after you hid and ducked and fucked and ran you’d have traded a limb just to feel anything again. Well this is that. That feeling. That pulse. That risk, that danger. This is madness and in your lonely hours you begged for it. Here it is. Be brave.

Don’t dissolve into bar stools.

January 26, 2015 § Leave a comment

“I asked for the future but she only sang me a song.” The Easy Mark and the old maid – Bad Books. 

You wouldn’t have to ask.

We’d come a long way. We couldn’t remember really our where we’d started, how far exactly there was between then and now in time or space, but we knew it was a long way back. Maybe we didn’t want to remember, maybe we didn’t need to too. Either way, we’d arrived at now and we were content to be here. What I’d learnt in the journey that we had made was that I’ve found myself to be always chasing. Forever in the hunt of that forever dangling carrot. Never getting there. Never content. I’m not saying that I always achieved what I wanted too. Not even close. It’s just when my aim shifted, through failure or success, I never took time to be content in the moment. I always wanted what I couldn’t have, that’s why I wanted it. So what? Would this realisation mean that I would suddenly change? Start being content and sell everything I own and start living as a monk crossed legged in a cave? Fuck no. That’s not me. That’s not us.

I think we’re beyond it. Don’t you? I thought at least. I used to call it blood dance. I used to feel it sing in my veins like hope. Like it feels when you’re young. It’s starting to creep back up on me now I think. But I think it’s the last chance saloon for this. I honestly think this might be it for all this. Not in a defeatist way. Not in a way during which I bob my head in a well rehearsed way.  In a realistic way. I know. I know that this is it. I know that I haven’t passed up my last chance, I’m grateful for that.

Where Am I?

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