Hey, let's escape. We've been friends for years and we don't want the same, and we can't share space, but at least we can agree on a destination and not getting away for getting away's sake. There's no fairytale trip; have you ever slept rough in an airport in Europe? Each coast washes up shit, but if it's a shore I've never seen then I'll endure it. I'm not getting away for getting away's sake. We'll probably get asked if we're selling drugs, and we'll probably get mugged because every tourist does. You've got more money for drinks when the hookers are rough, and by week two we got used to the taste of blood. By week two we got used to the South Beach cops, dress codes, which notes get you a drink or not, which limits got crossed when British kids got shot, and which spirits make peach tea the perfect drop.

peach tea

Leave me the hell alone; I'll be gone before the club's closed. Arrived as sure as the dawn but I'll be leaving a lost soul unless you sit there making fun of a friend I used to know; I will add you to the tally across my knuckles with your teeth. Because I believe in few, but she can lead me to hospital beds, foolish as that may be. We'd leave the car like awkward teens and make it to the kitchen sink. Or we would argue until tears and I would watch you sleep and think 'you are made up of colours, and I am made up of darks, so much weaker than this galaxy and the rhythms at it's heart'. I believe in few, but she can lead me to hospital beds, foolish as that may be. And I believe in few, but we would be top of my list, if I was one to wish.

wish list

I help myself to sleep with a pastime or a vice I keep like anchors to my feet, but I think faster than I can write, so I think it might be wise for me to spend a few nights inside.

I still see you out some weeks - one cheap key and your cheeks curl like the corners of dead leaves. I was safe, I never left their side, but I think you might be right, and I should spend a few nights inside.

a few nights inside

You missed an older side of me. When young punk bands were hailed as kings, when DIY meant everything. When all I did was hope to please my first idol, the late John Keith, when Omaha was all I'd breath.

Exchanging past lives with a stranger over coffee that you kind of like swallows up all kind of trust. It's powerful.
I was reduced, to a topic, a hobby that you no longer do. Oh, what each cycle does, around this Sun. It's powerful.

It sweeps the night away like weak swimmers.
It covers its kin like the ink of next century’s writers and, rosily fingered, parts any canopy it meets and pillar-like creeps.

It creeps to each peak and each precipice first, to the surface of industry and oceans third, it traces the walls to the lids of my eyes, and teases their structure as you tease mine.

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