Come get it, I got it.

The good thing about the choice I face right now, is that it's no choice at all.

It's forward or forward, a one way street.

********

The way to walk through fire is to find a centred peace within yourself, exhale and move slowly. So when I've finally had enough of a familiar ache, where do I go? What do I do?

I get in the car, drive to a friend's house. He's waiting out the front, he's holding a paper bag. We're excited. We're pumped. This is what life is all about. It's been too long. Too fucking long.

I stop at the bottle shop. We're going to need it.

Back in the car, and we hit the road just as the sun decides it wants no part of what's to come and bashfully sinks behind its lover, the horizon.

We pull up at the place and head inside.

I'm home.

I open the Taltarni Shiraz, it's a fucking awesome drop.

My friend sets everything up in my backyard.

And we play Chess, for hours.

And it's fucking fantastic.

********

When I'm kicking myself, brought up on failure, desperation and loneliness, I think I'm behind everyone. I think I'm missing out, on culture, on fun, on gigs, on parties, on friends who were friends.

Oh, but that's crazy talk.

Crazy talk from a guy who deep down knows that happiness lies buried in the dirt, in the Earth, and in flight with the wind, in the thunder of waves and dancing in the white heat of an open fire.

There are greater truths out there, than the menial shit we all concern ourselves with.
And fuck, sometimes, the deceptive heart casts emotive spells which we think are reality.
But if you can get through them, and see the past as it truly is, and people as they really are,
then you're on the way.

I don't know, depends what your ambition is really.

Some people just want to stay the same.

I just can't anchor myself to them anymore.

It retards my ability to see the path I'm on, which is a good 'un, you'll have to trust me.

Even if it bores you.

********

To two beautiful fucking people, who reminded me of who I can be.

Sweat.

Slim dark cobblestones and cool blue whispers and dirty alleyways and the way I walk unseen
in cigarette fire an incinerated doll, such long legs and greaser skin, ripped red by the crabs in their eyes, tooth and claw and red light carpets, well worn by the sweat on their backs, a scrapping salivating blistering boiling fire, a hold on tight, a haunted hotel, rapid conversation, stripped wood and whiskey fog and blurred visions, I see the past, our beautiful nest of dreams, crawling with spiders, a hypnotic rhythm, a disguise, a forgotten future in the cracked green and filthy glass, knives on our fingers, old wooden stairs, painting and crying, the whole scene is blue.

And I'm caked in lust.

And all I see is you.



When I wake in the dirt and lift my head from whiskey fog and I'm covered in mud and all I can hear is that hypnotic rhythm from up - from in front - from the light that lives up old wooden stairs and I crawl to my feet and I can almost smell the sin that dances in the air surfing the waves treble and bass and I grab the rails that the notes live between and step by step inch my way closer and closer to that red door that pulses lusty light and laughter and I know I'm home and my hands grasps the crack of the door and my last tooth falls to the floor as I pull it wide open and cackle and scream and ignite in the heat and fire and the Welcome To Hell.

'cause Hell's just another name for Dirty Heaven.



Another boulevard
Two more corners
Five more miles
A future forgotten
A woman and three shells
Try to guess the answer
To hide in my heart

The damage apart.

Thick cloud black night
Blue moon number
A song you'll never hear
Change you won't find
It's your children's children

Sweating on her back
Ripped red stockings
Crabs in her eyes
Hungover motel
Run away, Runaway.

Knife on a finger
A stripped back guitar
Hard from the danger
Blood glow behind
Rapid conversation
No understanding
Follow me, follow me
Ice on the table
Green from the smash
Less never earned
The rest thrown back.

Cool moon whispers
Dark road night
Well worn story
Red ripped light
American disguise
A fire crawling
the sweat of the carpet
painting and crying
the whole scene
blue.