listen to this when you are dragging yourself out of bed or going to your overpriced gym or cooking the meal with the almost out of date chicken or when you are driving to go and type on your computer all day or when you are contemplating running away or when you are trying to have a very serious conversation about your relationship or when you are planting very beautiful flowers or when you are somewhere but want to be anywhere else
ignore the terrible mixing

for when you want to be anywhere else

Music credits: Disillusionment For The Emotional Type: You'll Never Get To Heaven

It’s that time of year again, 
where I visit churches and steal candles
to light and pray to the saint of lost causes.
Under the coral reef, 
my soul lit up like trashed Christmas lights.
Chinese red blue gold smashes above me
in empty fields on empty nights. 

I sang my way to a party
and played high cowboys and aliens 
with the stars, like Mulder,
tripping over the tar kisses of girls and boys,
studying their tribal dancing earthquakes into the floor.
They rumble along in the silent night 
like they’re on a dying ghost train, making the most
before it is hit by a tempest or a dirty bomb.
The house music made me want to go home.
It tasted like a Houdini sucker-punch in the mouth,
red wrecked tin and iron,
I was licking my lips like a porn bitch.
It’s all about life experience, I told myself,
Get through it. It’s all life experience, but
my hands grow old when I wash them now.

I am tired of dead mornings in dead corridors.
My pill, mid-morning black coffee. Write an essay. Make a joke.
I’m dying here, man,
I’m a wild western murder mystery body in the night,
a bleeding and bloody Laura Palmer 
bruised and battered and baked big kid.
Hold my head up, I am drowning.
I am waving to my neighbour – 
he is disembowelling the roots of the soil again.
My hair-dye is starting to give me roots again.
Winter time, autumn rain.
Russian morning trains,
fogging the cemetery swing sets and black livered roads –
the world, my museum.
My aunt is in chemo.
The leaves are dead under me.
The guy on my street is in an ambulence again.

I keep on screaming like I am on stage,
but it’s a deaf and dumb charity night
so I am retiring for the evening, backstage.




evemair

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