Early on the 13th

Early on the 13th

I heard the church bells down the street

I saw a reflection in my lover’s eyes

I caught the sun breaking through the curtains.

 

I thought of dedications and declarations

Hymns and poetry and movements like wine or ivy

All short enough to ensnare attention.

 

And I wondered if I’d found balance

Or if I’d stray like abstracts or jazz,

If I lit down in a country of romance

Would I meander like a fickle tourist?

 

Things crowded my mind

Early on the 13th.

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Average Day

Propulsion, speed, Opera

Bowling down the road in sleepless coattails

And the same gloves you slept in –

What a gorilla, devoid of inspiration

Wallowing in howling sin, desperate as a star

Ready to supernova. Arrested for jaywalking

And screaming at the police for offences

Mismanaged. Work in the morning,

Sad wailing musical pipe dream romance –

Stale coffee. Dreams written as tattoos.

Every eye is on you like Apollo: a crumbling obelisk

Cursing to the dirt, asking the earth

“Why aren’t I rich yet?” – Some kind of prayer.

Writing for NME

It’s an aspiration,

Nay! A dream!

To destroy a hotel room

While my body is as weak as a guitar string

Left on a guitar by an 80 year old

Farmer who’s seen everything before.

But, unlike him, I’ll be dancing

Gyrating like sin, singing and drinking

(Attempting to do both at the same time)

Ready to interview a Mancunian upstart

With a fringe

And a paisley shirt

But the guy will have to call me and not give up

Because I guarantee I’ll be passed out

In glory.

Ode to someone

You light my heart like an opportunity

That I let pass by me in the street;

An excitement, like rushing rivers through my veins

Or a hand promising everything for nothing.

 

And I see you in the moon when it’s late

And the last bus is leaving.

To me you are everything I wanted.

 

You stand there on another plain

And I wonder: if I held you would it be enough

To burn away the storm that is currently

Falling on me?

Conflicted

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.

Belle and Sebastian

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.

Biography

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.

Sunday Afternoon

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.