I’m waiting for fate to hand me what I want
Because to go out and grab it shakes me to grey
And I retreat. I want to wake early, before the world;
Get the bus, work. I want to write the feeling
Of changing seasons, that which excites
And fills the air with sweet leaves falling.
I want to know the names of streets
And follow them like a natural dance
Not having to look forward in a white shirt and tie.
And I want to rock and roll – but to write is to
Be safe. And that’s easier.
Thank god Belle and Sebastian came along
To save Smiths fans in English classes in the 90’s
With sexual confusion and Nick Drake jangle
Pop fusion. What is it about wispy words and
Shambolic melodies of silvery pop, like carp
In a pond, that makes the heart start like
Kerouac’s car in a book not yet read?
It’s like the rain in Cambridge, or sun in Oxford
Where Wilde is king of the homesick
And the music pours like a quick gold fix of Shakespeare.
Plaid skirts and small cars on muddy lanes
And coffee dates under grey skies with scattered planes,
She’s got hair like Tina Weymouth, she writes in French,
Her eyes are a deep brown. She speaks like jazz,
Or a Mancunian in the slums. Her mother’s a nurse.
Goddamn, I’m in love. Time to Tipp-Ex those lines of
Cynicism that flow like waves in my notebook.
I want to be lazy, like an old string
On a rusted guitar or a prophet
Lounging in the Spanish sun. It would be nice
To have a clear mind, like a cat on the street –
But Coffee and inspiration makes me shake
And I can feel the weeping in my chest,
Like a Robin on the washing line.
Never mind existentialism – that doesn’t cut it,
My body is whole and wild and I imagine excess
And decadent days in which to waste away.
And then I write about them.
On this afternoon the city exhaled and
Allowed the blue to linger far beyond the
Usual yellowing of the deep night. There were
Streams of people all passing me by, going
In the opposite direction like the pale wisps
Of clouds that swam above me. I walked like a
Dance, haphazard and unbound and people
Had already started getting drunk. Some complained,
Some were Dickensian in cold hotel doorways –
Women like swans with their heads bowed
Trying to get from A to B. All this in artifice
And I hear the unrestrained hum of evening life
Being lived perfectly by so many.
Your morning soul is drenched in caffeine
And stained red with wine. Solemn cold and the grey sky –
A canvas for the motorised symphony of the streets.
And you sigh, turn on your phone, and watch the news on the TV
While you count the coins in your hand. You are sure that this
Will be a good day.
Joe’s name was lit tragically in neon
And I stood beneath the sign
Watching the traffic running over the
Hot blue quilt of the road.