Happy New Year.

Forgive and forget,

to a beautiful year ahead.

xoxo

8.

Moulin Rouge.

Where mystery, romance and lust meet...

a party bus, ventriloquists, a tank filled with snakes and dancing minature ponies made to sit and beg as dogs, muscle men wearing leather bras, girls on the fourth show of the day lagging behind the other dancers, stealing champagne from the Japanese tourist's table beside me, everything so incredibly kitsch and bad, and so fucking hilariously good that it becomes one of the all time Greatest Experiences of my Life TM? ARE THEY TAKING THE PISS AND WHO EVEN CARES?

This will never happen again. The first time I sat through this show. It's taken me three days to even try to write about it, and in the end, I cannot find the words. Maybe, years from now, when I am a perverted Wrinkle Holder, something will come.

Wait, that didn't sound right...

And the teenage American girl who walks beside her mother as we collect our coats and says, "but...that was nothing LIKE the movie..."

Oh god. So bad it was fucking AMAZING.

Anyway, enough about things which are amazing, but which distract.

Because there's so much more...

7b.

There are three different parts of Paris now.

There is the tour - The hotels, the bars, the roadies who talk loud English in the Tourist Cafes which line the village where we are. My beautiful Meka, who follows her own agenda, and rightfully so. The hum of the air conditioning, and the Beige Lighting of the corridors and the room I am in. This seems almost like work. And I am not working, I'm an anoymous guest. But I can see now what Meka was describing. It's one thing to travel the world, and another to be so tired all you do is travel to different hotels and see the inside of different stadiums. I try and avoid this place as much as I can. Though I'm walking at least 5 hours a day, and occassionally need to come home and bury my face into the clean, soft Hotel Pillow. Yum.

There is the Paris I have discovered - The streets, the monuments, the famous, the hidden. The desperate homeless who crawl on sticks across scenes so familiar to me. Scenes I have seen hung on a gallery wall. There are the minorities who are stopped by the gendarmes at every corner. The fashionable and wealthy who have an Access All pass, but choose to stay on the correct side of the Rue de Royale. There are the vendors who line the Seine selling books. Books! Books and art! The street vendors sell books and art. That was the first time I truly fell in love with this city, when I saw that. There is cafe after cafe after cafe, all so expensive, and impossible to discern without serious investigation. There are baguettes and donuts and crepes and pastries and wines and beers and bars and girls and lights. Oh my, the lights. And I've seen all of this on my own. Just walking. Hour after hour, day after day, just observing and taking it all in. Knowing that I'll need it, not for this cheap arse travel blog story I'm writing. But for the real thing. And that's the one thing I really feel I have taken in. That this city can light the creative spark, just by being itself. All it has to do is exist. That's what I'm taking in, as I walk the streets. Gallons and gallons of Creative Spark TM.

There is the Paris that is yet to be - Because for all its beauty, Paris is hollow, without somebody to share it with. To hold the hand of the one you Love while taking deep breaths rather than photos, to stop beside the river and touch each other's skin, to make love at night, knowing that this is where Love came home, this is the Paris that is yet to be.

But it will be here soon.

We've made it so.

So in the meantime, I'll walk, and I'll wait, and I'll grin.
Because soon that True Paris, will start to begin.

7.

The answers are just out of reach. Hidden in the future. But how can I not believe, when I am walking the streets of Paris, and reading her words? I will not over think it. But the city has a way of making my head spin, and as I discover new parts of Paris, I open myself up more and more to The Narrative of Our Story.

Hilarious. And so beautiful.

But that's...

Thursday I watch the Dinosaur Show from the crowd. Hundreds of French families clap and cheer and wear silly dinosaur hats and buy Unofficial Merchandise from men in leather jackets, out front of the stadium. And the men spit and smoke, while the ladies shower affection upon the children. I'm in a surreal Paris. I am so proud of Meka and her part in this. It's more of a lifestyle than what anyone could imagine. But she is still so damn cool.

We have tickets booked for Moulin Rouge later that night. Christmas Eve at Moulin Rouge. Sure, why the fuck not? I imagine the lighting, the crowd, the tables, the dancers. I prepare my suit, my shoes, my hair...

But nothing prepares me for Moulin Rouge.

6.

 

Walking with Dinosaurs is the third biggest tour in the world right now, after U2 and Coldplay, and I'm right in the guts of it. Two shows a day they sell out, all across Europe, then later in the year, Japan. Meka is, typically, adored by all, and being her guest makes me part of the family. The first day here it's name after name after name, and I give up trying to know everybody. They've been 9 months on the road, over a 100 people, techies, truckies, production staff, catering, fucking everything and everyone. What do I do at home? I sure as Hell don't travel the world making gigantic robot dinosaurs. Everyone's a character, the Drivers especially. Hard nuts from Northern England, covered in tattoos and whistling at French girls. This is not My Paris. But it's a hilarious Base from which to discover what it is I'm really looking for. That's home for me here. A small, anonymous fish, in a monstrous travelling pond. The hotel empties in the morning, and then they all come charging back about 9pm. So all day, every day, I wake up, eat a croissant, drink a coffee, then start to walk. I'm going to know this city. I promise myself that. And being alone, I am free.

The first morning I wake up dazed and confused, and leaking "Ham Sandwiches" from my nose. I can't feel my face, hairy mouth, all the Jazz that the City of Lights could dish up on one long Winter's Night. But after a blink or two as I open the curtain, my heart soars and I am ready.

It's not cold like London. There is no snow, yet. It's just grey and a casual 2 degrees. Two pair of socks and back in the Connies. The hotel is right by the river in Bercy, so we're away from the Heart, but easy to find. Not that I want to be found. I want to be lost. I hide in my jacket and put the sunglasses on. The ones she gave me when I woke in her house in London. I wear them every day. I want her to see what I see. And I want her to be close. But that's...

I carry a camera when I walk, but it's impossible to know what to snap. I'm no photographer. And every fucking street corner is a postcard, once I start drifting away from the river through Bastille and then back toward Notre Dame. I mean I could be taking photos of a tacky restaurant, which to me looks so beautiful beneath the impossibly perfect apartments. Balconies, curtains, everything is as anyone has ever imagined. And all the Parisiens, with their coats and dogs and cigarettes, deftly navigating the city streets, so I just dig my hands deep in my pockets and go with the flow, be one, be this, cross the roads hard not scared, I don't want to visit, I want to live in this place, I want to know how it feels when I surrender to the beat, when I shed my old skin, and am reborn in this sacred heart.

I walk for six and a half hours, that first day. I get to know back streets, shortcuts, dive bars, where to go and where to avoid. I see both sides of the river, and I fall in love with Isle St Louis. I walk from Bercy to the Tower and back again. I watch the buildings light up, one after the other, at dusk. I see a Golden City beneath a Golden Sky, and I have come Home. My soul knows it. It brought me here. And I let it take control.

There's only one thing missing. And she is back in Hackney.

But I have come this far on blind belief.

And I don't lose Faith, in Fate's Beautiful Plan TM.

Because as always, there is so much more.

5.

Paris.

I'm tired. It's taken me ten hours to get here from London. Fucking crazy. But I'm in Paris. I work out the Metro and head to Cour St Emillion, where the hotel is. Where my friend is waiting. It's 9.30pm. I fucking made it. That's all I can think. I fucking made it to Paris. I fucking made it. Now, all I need is a good night sleep and I can start to enjoy myself.

I should know better.

It takes me about half an hour to get to the hotel, and just as I'm walking in the door, I hear a scream. There she is, my little Meka. Bouncing up and down and waving at me. We scream and hug and cry and kiss and laugh all at once. I'm surprised I don't snot or shit. Everything is happening and I'm dizzy as Hell.
C'mon, she cries, drop your bag upstairs, we're going out!
She takes me by the hand and I don't feel tired anymore, I don't feel anything. No, I mean I really don't feel anything.
Meka is so excited. I am so lucky she is here. I just grin as she talks. I don't know if I have the energy to make words happen out of mouth anyway. Doing doing doing, she bounces as she talks, "the Production Manager is taking us out to Buddha Bar! Some famous place or something. We just called a taxi, but I knew you would make it!" We get to the room, I literally throw my bag in, take one second to think of Train/Ferry/Snow/Train = Bed, and then I stick my fingers out from my hips and say, "yeeeeeah. let's fucking go out!"

Woo!

Yeah, right, ok. Buddha Bar. There's 5 of us. Meka and her gay, Pat, David and Lisa, the Production Managers for the show Meka is working on here in Paris, and I. They're all amazing. They take me in their arms and we walk into Buddha Bar. I've heard about it. They make bad fucking chill out CDs, but the place itself is fucking amazing. Stairs lead down from the front reception area and overlook a huge dining room, a film set, James Bond, baby, with a gigantic Buddha statue at one end of the room. We are seated right in front of it. There are people everywhere. Everyone is hot. The place is red, black and dark wood. Music is blaring. Waiters are all around us. Hot girl, hot girl, hot guy, head spin, Matty, Matty, Joing, Joing, Joing, Sensation, Paris, French, what the FUCK is going on? Woooooooo!

Lisa looks at me and laughs. Welcome to Paris, Matty, she cries. And I laugh, we all laugh, we all drink and drink and drink and drink, and eat and drink and drink for hours. Champagne, White Wine, Red Wine, Sake, More Sake, More Wine, a tiny bit of Sushi, Drink, Drink, Drink.

A few hours in, Meka leans over and says, we might get to have Ham Sandwiches later...and all I can think is, Fucking Awesome. Long day. I'd actually really enjoy a Ham Sandwich. I can picture them. In the hotel on a clean plate. Nice Ham Sandwiches...awesome. Yum, yum, yum. Nom, nom, nom.

But that's not what she meant at all. And all of a sudden, it's London, all over. I may never sleep again. This was not the Paris I was looking for. This is Fun TM.

But there is so much more...

4.

The Port of Calais is about as far removed from my romantic image of France as my friends are to me now. A thick layer of snow can not conceal the cold concrete greeting we receive when the ferry docks. Foot passengers are made to wait as the cars roll off. And my earlier decision to stand close to the gangplank has succeeded in having me squashed flat against the door, as hundreds of tired, drunk, and angry English people mill like cattle behind me. This ain't a "yeeeeah" moment. And to top it off, I find out that my TGV ticket to Paris actually leaves not from Calais town centre, but from Calais Frethun, which is out toward the country side. Yeah, cool. I have 45 minutes. There is no connecting bus. Hundreds of people fight for the four or five taxis which are there. I have 25 euro, and there is no ATM. Everything is covered in snow and I am in fucking Nowhere. I start to walk. In Converse. Through the snow. What choice do I have?
About 500 hundred metres up the road two French girls with the same plan succeed in stopping a taxi. He gets out of his car and walks into the shop to grab a coffee, and they throw their luggage in the back and jump in. I run toward them and stand in front of the cab, saying, s'il vouz plait, s'il vouz plait, but they ignore me. I stand there, shivering, and wait until the driver emerges. He tries to ignore me and in my panic I slip into English. Please, please, please, I have to get to my train. This is my only chance. He stops and looks me up and down and asks, Are you English? No, I say, Australian. He smiles, and says, Ok Kangaroo. I take these girls to their hotel, and then I take you. I shower him with Merci, and climb into the front of the cab. I have 25 minutes. I have no fucking idea where this train station is.
We start to drive and he and the girls end up speaking good English. I am Big Willy! The driver tells me. You know why they call me that? I laugh, the girls laugh, Big Willy laughs, and the atmosphere in the cab is relaxed. The guy even tells a Dad Joke. He says, What do they call William in England? I don't know, I reply, Billy? Yes! He says. And what do they call a dog with no paws? I don't know, I reply. They don't call it anything, he laughs, they just go and pick it up!
I can't believe I get the one fucking Dad Joke taxt driver with a huge cock in France. Or maybe they're everywhere, I don't know.
The girls, Charlotte and Marie, are awesome. They tell Big Willy to drive me to the station first, as I am on a deadline and they are not. Big Willy agrees. What time your train? He asks. I look at the ticket. 15 minutes. Oh, he says, okay. Let's go fast.
I shit you not, Big Willy drives through the tiny streets of Calais at about 140kph. On the snow. I'm gripping the fucking dash and asking, so, errr, you use chains on your wheels? Big Willy spits out the window. No chains! We don't use chains! I drive like this my whole life!
The car is sideways half the time and at one point we actually mount the sidewalk to pass cars that are stopped at a red light. The girls are chatting casually in the back. I'm thinking I'm going to die. I never made it to Paris. But at least I died in France.
Eventually we make it to the station. I have 2 minutes. The fare comes to exactly 25 euro.
I want to kiss Big Willy.
I may never write that again.
I scramble over the snow toward the platform and get on the train just before the doors close.

I'm on my way to Paris.

3.

The clouds that roll into the channel from the Atlantic are ominous. I'm on the top deck of the ferry, chain smoking and drinking wine to keep warm. It's -2 degrees up here, but it's better than being inside the guts of this floating retirement village / food court. I find a spot behind the glass wall, and I sit on my backpack and smoke and the sun sets somewhere behind this monstrous grey cloud in the sky, which stretches over the horizon and moves with fanatic conviction toward the coast of England. The centre of it is thick with battle. On the edges sparse skeletal fantasms float beside the storm, and I wonder if they are victims, tossed aside, or demons, who herd the storm across the seas and keep it tight, keep it condensed, keep it vicious. Below this sky, miles from our ferry, I see the lights of tanker ships braving the waters below the war and I take a slug of wine from my plastic cup and silently salute. I try not to turn and look at England. I try to stay focused on what is ahead. We text, from time to time. But as I approach Calais, my mind turns to the job at hand. My connecting train to Paris, which leaves in an hour and a half. I don't see a problem. My ticket says Calais. The ferry arrives at Calais.

I am certain I can get to the train station in an hour and a half.

2.

London has me trapped. The whole city is covered in snow. All the trains to Paris are cancelled and all the airports closed. I try in vain, along with 30,000 others, to crawl my way to France, but the snow keeps falling and it seems as though the whole city has shut down. Eventually I cut my losses and head back to safety at my friends house, where we sit online for hours searching for an answer. Train to Dover, ferry to Calais, train from Calais to Paris. The red wine starts to flow. Outside it's a Winter Wonderland of snowmen and snow fights and children playing in the middle of major roads. Everyone has surrendered. And those who haven't rush for the warmth and close the hatches. I put clean socks on and kick back relak. It's going to be a slow, lazy night, this last night in London.

That's when she appears. Red dot. Bottom corner.

Matty.

I smile. It's rare this voice, but it's never changed. Last I heard she had flown to a new life in L.A. A designer now. In vogue and in Vogue. But the memories of us have never died, and on a night like this in London, everybody needs a little warmth.

Hello You, I type.

And -

London is covered in snow! It's amazing!

She replies - How do you know? And I say, Because I'm in it!

There is a pause.

Then -

Where?

Hackney! I type and wait...

WTF? I'm in Hackney! That's my hood!

Get out of town...you moved to L.A.???

No! I didn't end up going! I've been in Hackney for six years!

We keep talking and there's an urgency now. We are ten minutes from each other and it's my last night in London and there is 6 years to discover and nothing has changed, and nothing was lost, and our lives, our distant lives which crossed so many times with no result, until on a magical night in London, Mistress Fate opens the door again, and dares us to step through.

I have forgotten, but not forgotten.
I have remembered,
all this time,
to remember.

As has she. And her subtle smile as she opens her door brings us closer than ever before as I stand shivering in the snow outside her house.

"Watch your step," I say, "it's slippery out here..."

We climb into the back of the taxi and laugh, but it's not a madness this laugh. It's a softness. A wonder. And it's not until we are hidden in the dark corner of the bar that we truly shake our heads at all that had conspired to birth this moment. She talks of her year and I talk of mine and the patterns and the dates and the Hopes and the fantasies all fit like the clasped hands of old lovers as we sip our gingerbread drinks, completely unaware of the festive drunks around us. And I won't lie, I drink in every moment with her, and I'd close my eyes just to hear her voice, but I can not for fear of her not being there when I open them again. And I never thought I'd actually live the sentence that she says, "of all the people, in all the places, it had to be You that came into my Life tonight..."

I fall in Love. I do. I am not ashamed, here in Hell, to admit it. I fall deeply, madly, passionately in Love with this person who I have known for ten years, and who has never completely disappeared, though we have never been together. Hours fly by, firstly sharing secrets of the past, before moving on to Dreams of Tomorrow TM. It's Us, it's really Us, on the other side of the World, in exactly the same place, leading completely different lives.

What a fucking Head Fuck.

Some friends of hers are close by and we join them, just to find more time in this limited night. We are whisked away to Shoreditch, a Member's Only club, where Rockstars rub shoulders with Media Gurus and the Class System is in Full Effect. A heated pool on the roof top, surrounded by snow and glamour and martinis and cigarettes, whilst downstairs lavish restaurants and velvet cushions sate every desire of those who desire this. But we don't. We simply laugh at it all, and our every word hangs upon the wire which delicately binds us together until we can take no more of this foolish facade, this Tight Knit London which is worn by only the priveleged few. So we run for it, out the door and into the night, into a taxi, and into the Light.

And some things never leave. And I learn of Truth and Tenderness, Fate, Love and Patience, on a dark and frozen morning, in My London.

I leave the next morning. We look at each other in our silly thermals and giggle self conciously but there is no hiding the comfort we feel in front of each other. And there is a moment, My Moment, when I descend the stairs and she doesn't see me, and I stand quietly watching her as she stares out the back window, leaning gently on the wall and I don't wonder what she is thinking, I wonder that she exists at all. This...this Her. Wrapped in English wool and blowing softly on the cup she nestles absent mindedly.

We have breakfast, slowly, and she escorts me to my train without a word of hesitation and neither of us can leave the other, or bear to end this This.

I kiss her as I climb aboard the train, and she says, "Au Revoir, my Pop Up Boy."

And later that day as the White Cliffs of Dover fade into the the sunset, I hide in my iPod and listen to Songs Ohia as my heart tries to drag England with me to France.

We get no second chance in this life.

You won't have to think twice, if it's Love you will know.

Do we want to know?

I don't know.

But there is so much more...

1.

You can find Heaven in the strangest of places. In this case, Heaven was in Columbia Road, Hackney. Or Shoreditch. Staring at a gorgeous bar girl while she worked, my oldest and dearest friend beside me, two pints of Guiness and a tonne of snow falling outside. A White Christmas for all, and for all The Mood to match. Then came the Sunday Roast, with Yorkshire Pudding the size of a hat and a gravy you can not imagine, and as we ate, the music sat happily between the joyful yuultide banter of the crowd and the cries of the flower market vendors outside, layer after layer of Right Now, and all of this had me spinning and I could feel the laughter just tumbling out of me, great waves of happy tears crashing against all that angst which had built up over the year, and my friend laughed and I laughed and the bar girl leaned over her side of the bar and raised her eyebrows at me and started laughing too, and man, this Royal Oak, this Piece of Peace, this Moment, this now, My London, not London, but My London. What a Happy London it was.

And there's so much more.

Dedication.

I've had a dream since I was sixteen years old. It's a romantic dream where I walk across Europe with just a guitar and I stop at every town and I play the local Inn and they feed me and I sleep in a stable. And the next day I rise with the sun and keep on. And it's a never ending road, and there's fresh bread and butterflies and flowers in fields and old wooden doors and it's the movement that rewards me, the never ending horizon which inspires me. 

When I quit the band the dream died too. Fifteen years ago. I gave it up and chased the bucks and worked packing newspapers onto palletes which led to laying out newspapers which led to designing music magazines which led to my own magazine which led to a career in fucking advertising of all things. And I found myself surrounded by musicians but instead of inspiring me it only served to fuel my low self esteem. The thought that I could no longer do what they did. That I had nothing to offer. Jesus. That one night, years ago, at The Tote, when we did it one last time. And I had years of pent up stage aggression to vent, and the four of us drank shots before we played and the animal came out, fingers up, fuck you, scream and shout, twist it out. Oh man, that rush. Until the drive home, when I was told how I'd been a mess on stage, an embarrassment. And those words shut me down again. So the dream went back into hiding as I reached once more for a beer to silence the screaming voices within. 

Last year I picked up my guitar again and I was encouraged and I sat in my backyard and noodled and my heart was happy and my head was silent. I can't tell you what that means. To have a quiet head. That's the thing that kills me. Not the bipolar lows, not the feeling of inadequacy, not the helplessness of a country boy's heart trapped in a materialistic world - it's the never ending voices. The cacaphonic chorus of thought which never relents, that's the shit that drove me to the edge. Not knowing which voice was your own voice and which was the sound of terror, trouble, mischief, anger, jealousy, sadness. But with those six strings singing, oh baby, everything hushed. It all just faded. So I haven't stopped, and now I'm ready. 

In the past five days I've experienced first hand the power of a few kind words. I'm still somebody's hero, against all the odds, and you know, don't you, that you're now my hero too. My words are a channel to something greater. A helping hand to people who need it. I'm a good person, I'm a talent, I'm somebody. Im actually somebody. And I won't lie, ego or esteem or just broken, I fucking needed it. I needed it so bad and I got it, and if I could I'd tell you all the same things about yourselves so that you got it too. Fuck, there's even a magazine up here with a double page spread on me. Now that's just fucking hilarious. I'll show it to you sometime. 

And now it's back to the kitchen. Back to the bottom rung. And I don't know what's going to happen when I get there, if The Fear will return, or if This Fire will fight on in spite of all the trials which are still to come. I don't know. But I wanted to talk straight with you. I wanted to converse as people, a straight up post that doesn't hide behind cryptic prose with vertical and rhythmic limitations. Hello. It's me. Mathew James Barker. I almost left it all behind, but a little nylon string guitar and two True Friends saved my fucking life. 

So this is no longer Hell for me. This is

this is

this is The Way Out.

And it's all for you, me and everyone we know.

You say goodbye, and I say Hello.

Soundtrack: Wilco / California Stars

The good thing about having spent so long in Hell is that it's proof that there's a Heaven. Hell is a nightmare of sweat and tortured dreams. Hell isn't being wounded, Hell IS the wound, savage and crusted, enclosing the deep and dreary dark and forlorn falsehoods based on what you've believed, what you've projected and what you needed to learn. Hell does not come after death, HELL IS DEATH, an ending, and how clear it dawns upon me now, this death which leads to rebirth and reawakening and a laughter not from the head or heart, but a laughter that giggles and froths and bubbles until it fountains and springs from the soul itself and all life is laid before you and the past is a death you have died but Boyo Boyo from death you live again and he who has not died has not lived, you who have not felt or lost or fallen, cannot know the joy of reawakening, the cinnamon aftertaste of calamity the ice cold reminder that NOW, right fucking NOW, you are alive and you have made it through. Oh yes, it's an orgasm of laughter, it's the view from the top, it's symphony not song and it's older than all time.

Heaven is waking in the morning and knowing that you're alive when all others are walking dead. Heaven is being lost in this place, staring at strangers and friends alike and caring and not caring all at once. Heaven is an emptiness, a void, a beginning, a canvas, a note, no time, all time, this moment and forever. Heaven is watching the forked tongue and greedy hands of those around you and always saying yes, sure, stab and stake my brothers, my loves, stab and stake because none of this is real, none of your money is real so take it all and naked I will laugh at the biggest joke of all, for there's more truth in a grain of insanity than a desert of greed, and the greatest insanity of all is Love and I am mad for you all. Best of all Heaven is the reality, when you've stopped wanting to be someone and just want to be someone special. And as soon as you know that, everything else follows as reward.

********

Ingredients:

Fresh Air
Moodboards
Acoustic guitars
The Sting
A soul
A heart



Of course, it's only a guideline.

The Whispering Track.

My overalls were pulled up to my bosom, showing my orange and black striped socks as I waved the folks on the train goodbye. Bye folks! Bye! I miss you folks! I'm gonna wait right here for ya folks! I'm gonna wave and wave and wave and wave and my arm ain't never gonna get tired 'cause I'm missing on y'all and if I stay right here fo' long enough, I knows y'all gonna be back real soon.

A few hours later and I was still waving, long after the train had flown into the horizon, pressed between the palms of the sky and the earth. My upper lip was curled into a smile dense with hope, and my teeth were chattering as night slunk down to mock my gentle determination.

My arm was tired, but I thought I could bring them train folk back. If I just kept at it. Kept on waving.

I don't know how long it was, the minutes became hours and all them little pricks of light took their turn tittering at my optimism as they danced across the black curtains above me until eventually that Sun rose on up to rebuke and reprimand the night for being so cruel. The morning brought warmth and clouds and birds and together they chased the darkness from me, and held me until I began to grow warm and lazy. My arm fell. Heavy and sore. I was heavy and sore on the inside too, but I hadn't been waving on the inside. Or had I? I dunno.

I could feel my lip begin to tremble, and my eyes got all squinty. I knew they'd be making rivers if I wasn't strong about it. I never knew what was right with that. My mama said it was good to clean out the pipes of the soul, but I read on the papers the other day a man that died and he said, to weep is to lessen the depth of your grief. Good grief, how's a boy supposed to know what's what?

I just stood there, and the memory of the whistle was a sweet melody of farewell.

Sooner or later, I turned from that train, saw the green grass around me and started to laugh and I ran down that hill and I chased that doggy that lives on the corner, near Bob Evan's old Hotel, where my momma and he used to meet do the naughty, hahaha, it's true you know. I don't mind, I liked seeing her so happy. Even if that Bob Evans is a married man.

I'm a married man too you know? Don't look like it. But I'm married to my memories, and my hope, and the way my heart dances for what may be. Huh, now I know I don't look like much of a catch to y'all mayhap, and I've heard the things people say behind my back, about me, being not quite right n' all. But I know things. And I see things that people don't give me credits for. And I can do secret things. I can't teach 'em, but I can do 'em.

Like hearing the sweetest melody hiding inside the whistle of a departing train.

And if the folk on the train don't wave back, well that's just 'cause they've got no time to appreciate, no time to listen with their running off down the track, onwards, gotta hurry, down the line, destiny and all that.

I don't think I've found my destiny yet.

But I don't think it lay down that track.

I think it might be around here somewhere, with my momma's memories and the green grass and trying to make just one person get off that train and spend a little time with a boy in orange and black stripey socks.

Choo! Choo!

Price You Pay.

You gave me all I've ever needed:

Laughter, Love and Fuck 'em.

Some people never got it.

But I always will.

I promise.

x

Message in a bottle.

We walked along the shore
beside the cliffs
and the faces of giants
watched as we strolled by,
their eyes birthing dusty rocks
which tumbled from the walls
and burst on the dry sand below.

Once The Ocean touched this place
I told her
and Once I thought to find you
within it.

But that was a long time ago.

I looked down at her
as she skipped beside me
her bright eyes
darting from cliff to sand
a Salty Sea
of Yellow Dust
which stretched out now
over the Horizon

further even

a golden memorial
littered with debris
dead smells
bone bleached memories
of a Past Life
destined now
to shrivel in a field
of one colour
tears.

Where did it go?
- she asked me

and stopped
we both paused
mid-stride and
imagination and maudlin
memory
conspired with
the cruel and generous sun
to send a deep blue glimmer
across the parched earth
but
that mirage
was short lived
and I
unable to drown
merely walked a few steps
and

(spat?
cried?
sighed?
hurt?
whispered?)

and
called Her
to me

c'mon, darlin'

I want you to see something

and my little angel
ran toward her father's arms
and we embraced

There
on the Ocean's Graveyard

and I pointed away from the Horizon
toward the Evergreen Forest
and said,

it doesn't matter anymore
where The Ocean went

what matters is

I found you
Somewhere Else.

And pointing toward the Forest
I whispered in her neck
Somewhere in There.


Home, she cried!
And turned to dust in my hand
That Future Love
as the Cold Green Water lapped my feet
here in The Present.

Home, I said to myself.

I turned my back on the Sea.
Climbed the cliffs.
 And headed for Home.

Print.

The man on the newspaper never lies. He says, it's going to be stressful, This Week, but in reality You and I both know it ain't that bad. I drink My Tea and we have a moment. It's a way to ground yourself. I guess that's what it is. It's not like that Tilted Smiley Moon Face Man truly knows me, but he's a writer and he's spreading The Joy TM so I like to make my eyes listen to him when I've got the time. Besides, he never lies. That's enough for now.

The "letter" hits my desk at 4am. It says it's sorry, and how only I understand. And maybe I do, but I don't feel Anything But Sadness. That all I am is a 4am confessional. A place to run to when everything has failed - or most likely, just Hit The Fan for the night. I think I'm more than that these days. I mean, you should see me in my suit. Besides, I've got enough on my plate. I don't want to be some girl's teddy bear, laying stuffed and vapid on a bed, waiting to comfort when the time for comfort hits, and tossed aside when the Real Thing TM works out how to say sorry with a plate of Hot Food or whatever. I'm Too Tired, Too Busy, Too Close to being Some Type of Happy. Sort your own insanity out. Or let The Twerp. Me? I'm just like everyone else. I'm in a maze, trying to find the lighthouse, and all you Climbers give me are bum steers. It's time to follow my own directions. They've never failed me in The Past. At least, not when I've Truly Listened.

And Home...well, hey, there's the pool to clean, and the cats to feed, and the bookshelf to refill, and there's Good Tucker TM and after I write, I'll sing Trucker's Laments and spend every spare moment worshipping The Witch who made this happen. She who will be gone in less than 6 days, off to Home herself in Paradise. And up there, there'll be a spare room for me if I ever want to visit, and Now, Here, there's a New Family, on top of the Ten, Twenty, Thirty I already have. Those hearts who never let up on me, those hearts who truly need mine as much as I need theirs. And not just at 4am. Family. And the humbling part is, when they lay eyes on me, they see someone worth knowing.

As I walked Home, a tired wreck, I looked down, as I always do.

And found:

beneath my feet. Beside my soles.

And then...

as Good Sailors do

I looked up. Just as the stars were leaning in. To mark their place in History. When Today became Tonight became Yesterday. Great sparkling witnesses, built of change itself. Moments long gone, which have yet to be fully appreciated. Tiny flickering specks which hide masses of flaming and freezing fire. These are the bright and brilliant contradictions which give the stars their magic. These are the Tralfalmadorian Vistas of Time - a Forever which Never Exists and which Forever Exists in Never.

It's enough to make a man sink, or blink
or maybe, baby,
wink.

The sky was red tonight.

That's what they'll say.

They'll say -

The sky was red that night.

And only I heard the words I spoke in return

only I was present

when that moment was born

when I left Time behind and

said,

Bring on The Dawn.

Lighthouse.

You never
called me a keeper

you never
shined your light
on me

you just crashed
and waved
(I'll just bleed)

and I believed

that you were there
for me.

I just stood
like a lighthouse

watching over
the sea

standing guard
over the wrecks

and now I kind of need

for someone
to come
and
save me.

And all the water
came rolling

and I was the last
of the men
standing alone

and I thought
your light
lit my Hope

but it was a distant
and disappearing boat

so all I could do
was pull my collar
close
and weep

then turn back
inside

to

dream.

The Last Stop in Hell.

Where to start

in the park

where shivering

it all came

crashing down

a night under the stars

at the end of a rope

not screaming

or crying

or shaking a fist

just looking up

at the night

and asking it

why

and knowing you

won't get an answer

and that's the worst part

not knowing if the answer

will be on the other side

of this final curtain

but wait

here is where

the phone rings

"hello you

what you doin'?"

and you look at yourself

and start to cry

One Last Time

you cry when they say

"fuck crying

 let's get you flying"

and then

you start to laugh

at it

all of it

the money

the pain

the girls

the family

the drugs

the rape

the murder

the weakness

the soft centre

the I need a hug please

the Help Me Please, Somebody

you laugh at it all

the games

the shame

the fictional weight

of this fictional world

which is all it is

a fictional pain you've invented

as a lazy writer

who attracts craziness

in order to fuel creativity

when indeed

all it ever did was block

the real you

from shining through.

That's all it ever does.

So you leave it

you trust your future

you think of all the

love

lust

sadness

pain

mummy

Pops

this 

that and totally

the other

that's you've tortured yourself

with in Hell

how she

and he

and they

and you

and where

was God

gone

wasn't he

oh how

alone I must be

oh how 

well,

you know

you finally fuck it all off

three days after

you had given up

you finally fuck it all off

and sit on a cliff

by the water

surrounded by tombstones

you finally bury the past

and it's hard

you never thought it would be

anything but

oh yes, it's hard, gonna get harder

this next bit

but without the weight

you know

that you can make it

out

of

Hell.

Fable.

The Sad Minotaur.

Zeus gave the King a bull to sacrifice, I don't know why. Things like that happened back then. Anyways, the King was greedy for this special bull and attempted to trick Zeus by sacrificing a different animal. Zeus was angry. And so to take his revenge on the King he made the King's wife sexually attracted to the special God-Bull. At which point the writer, me, starts to wonder why the fuck he is writing this down in the first place, oh yes, I remember. The Queen and the Bull make passionate love, as the bull was quite horny, cough, they meat and make passionate love and send the King into a blind rage. "What's your beef?" The bull asks, and "Yeah man, don't have a cow", the Queen adds, but this only serves to enrage the King further and he murders the Bull as he should have fucking done in the first place. The Queen falls pregnant. The earth is still. The King paces in fury. The heaven's wait, and nine months later a boy is born with the head of a bull. He is the minotaur. The King goes mad and builds a maze beneath his castle from which the minoatur can never escape. And people are afraid. Of the monster in the maze. But really, heis just a sad, little boy, trapped in a maze built by his step father, who raged and angered against his mother's love.

********

Time to stop writing poetry. Time to bring it back a few years to the sentences which never stop, which trip, delight and stumble over little punctuated creeks and squish face first against solid walls! Like that. Time to stop writing poetry. Time to stop wrting at all, until I can write the truths of things again, the tales of what has been and where I'm going and maybe together we can work out just how the fuck to get there.

********

I've made the wrong decisions, for what I thought were the right reasons.
Now, I want to make the right decisions, for whatever reasons.

Horizon.

The heat is oppressive enough without the white hot depression which always kicks this time of year. Too hot to even open a window and look out over the sky, blue as the eyes of yesterday's movie stars. So I'm trapped. Stuck in my own fucking analogy and trying to remember the philosophy that always gets me through. Something about - we're all just spinning on an empty rock in a cold lonely universe so smile, fucko, because everyone else is just as dead as you, as lost as you, they just hide it better under all the toys, or they have something more to focus on, like survival amongst the ruins of a piece of fucking land. My land, your land. That war makes me sick. I've got to stop watching the news. I need to focus on the light. To move towards the light which dances every night in my dreams, a tantalising, teasing temptation, so close, but so far away.

How long can you hold a dream? From deep in the night through the day and beyond. For years, for a lifetime, can you hold gentle and protected a single wisp of dream, a single cotton thread of what might be? I can. I can feel the white butterfly skipping in my heart. I can resign myself to the fact, that I am here for different reasons. That there are lessons to be learned that do not involve flights of fiscal fantasia, but rather the continual search within the soul for the door to the next stage. Whereby we might wake every day with a smile, no matter what this fucked up capitalist society decides to throw at us. No matter which way the arrows point, or what the anchor man tells us, the indicators, the seperators, the columns and charts and graphs, the concrete teeth of the sleeping Devil which rise in every city across the world. Death from below, graveyards of our own making, constructed of silver to forever distract us from the sad, sad truth. That we have murdered our earth and our souls to pursue pieces of paper. That we have lost all freedom of movement to pieces of paper. A sad, sorrowful, grubby, greedy, destructive sty full of pigs at the trough. The world is spinning to its doom, and we all deserve to go to Hell with it.

So smile then fucko, just like you said. What's depression, when the whole town is dead. That's almost worth a grin, knowing that one day beneath your feet will be a memory, knowing that in a billion, billion years, this will be dust and you will be inside an honest to God, real life fucking star. Just have to be patient. Play the game until you die. Eat some cheese, drive with the window down, touch that skin, milk that cock, write it all down, which house you want, which drink you'll have. Never, ever, forget to stop and scratch a pooch, those little guys don't understand, and they need some love. Make lists, make love, make one person understand you, and maybe they'll do the same to someone else, and maybe it will flow on, maybe it's a dream, but maybe it will flow on. A river of understanding to drown the world of pain.

The heat is oppressive. I sit in a darkened room. The sky is as blue and unforgiving as the eyes of an angry father. But there is today. And maybe we are all spinning toward our deserved doom, but we are not there yet. So I pick up a pen, and I start to draw. I take up my paint brush and paint. I write a song. I read recipes. I open the door and spy an angel and breathe upon her. I talk to the chickens in the language of the birds and have no idea what I am saying. I take a cold bath and laugh at my own body. I tell myself, if doom is coming, then baby, let's have a little fun. I light the light behind my eyes. I set free the butterfly within my heart. I keep the Hope fires burning.

And I make them burn bright, baby
that you might see them
from over your horizon.

Burn after reading.

I used to live
in a city of blood
of wine and fuck
and to Hell
with you
all.

I remember
the way it kept
me warm
the fire that
lust and anger
happily igniting
myself in an orgy
of rebellion.

I used to live
in the bottom
of a bottle
amongst the sentimental
flotsam which collected
together in a protective
shell.

I used to need
to write about it
I used to want to smash
the page the words your face
my heart this world this lack of
revolution this skull drugdery and
drugged old me and slugs we'll be for
eternity if I don't start to curse our comfort
our luxurious malaise our destructive ambition
our ugly dreams of how rich or how beautiful or
even how loved we'll be - I hated that and myself
for wanting it even more than I wrote that the world
around me did - God, I wanted it. And I was never afraid
to ask you in silence in my heart in the dark of the night sads
when the creaks and cracks appeared at the window a pale face
and white eyes and tomorrow's terror and a green backed monster
a broken heart no hope for a house no way forward never going to make it
I can't see the light I fumble for it but instead I grasp a black and velvet nothing
which illuminates by the glow that still lives behind your eyes, my eyes, the eyes of
the monster which cannot finish what it begins.

What I did was
I stood and murdered that
fire at the crashing end of last year
lost the anger amongst the sad and pitiful
slashed the wrists of a common enemy
drowned the fucker in remorse and laid
alone on the grass in mortal repose to wait
and see the shape of today rather than moulding
the clay of tomorrow into yet another worthless urn
of daydreams and hope but all it did that day upon the grass
all it did was rain.

And the brain kept on
never stopping the relentless
analysis and pushing and pushing
its savage critique and never allowing
for error or bliss or chi or tao or Now unless
the fire you see the fire the way to silence the
damnation which The Self flagellates upon my back
the fire the fuck the fall on my feet luck of the Irish the
twinkle the grin the hiding within the never letting you see
the wrong move in a wrong situation which always somehow
becomes alighted excited all fucking righted
in
The End.