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Mexico
I sat here this evening in a cold quiet room and sketched out some lyrics to a new song that I am writing. The song isn’t finished but here are some of the lyrics. I never know which song is ever going to turn out good and make it beyond light and shade, from pen and paper to full colour song. I have lost many lyrics in the past with songs that have never been sung. Words are important to me. Here is Mexico.
Mexico,
Heart of the sun,
You left your mark on me,
With your stars that hung.
Mexico,
Your moon is a piece of me,
How’d you get so free?
I cannot find my sleep.
The perfect grace of dancing is my heartbeat,
Meaning without meaning feels sad yet sweet,
Swaying to the beat is the only truth,
So hold me,
I got a heart that is doomed that possesses me.
Condemned to live,
I never laugh,
I got two different faces,
With tears in my eyes,
Condemned to live,
Born to die,
I got two different faces,
Kiss one hello and love the other goodbye.
Mexico,
Heart of the sea,
In my eyes there’s so much hurt,
I feel lost not free.
Mexico,
Let’s lie here together,
So that we can dream,
Every time you said you loved me,
You lied to me.
Monstrous dance land waking in my blood beat,
You’re talking without talking why can’t you answer me?
Don’t lie to yourself,
It’s the way it’s always been,
Now d’you see?
Did you ever love me?
Condemned to live,
I never laugh,
I got two different faces,
With tears in my eyes,
Condemned to live,
Born to die,
I got two different faces,
Kiss one hello and love the other goodbye.
Break free of me,
What are you afraid of?
Break free of me,
Mexico.
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The Poet
Pale and shaken from the morning, Elsie was drunk as hell. Her face flushed with half a smile and half a frown as she wondered blindly, looking for somewhere to go. The blind man had ripped out the sun from the sky so she tried to escape into the shadows where behind her, she watched the sky melt. A new destiny can only be born out of an open wound. As she walked into the night, the stars fought against the clouds and mist; living had always been more important to her than writing.
Long ago, he had told her of her destiny; that she would become a poet. Ever since that night, his name stayed engraved in her veins. The years, now engraved on her forehead and age having bleached her hair, she opened her memory and dived into the slipstream of her past where she swims up river and relives everything that was.
Their love had been sacred and for all these years beat in her ears but regret was more than this. The beauty that had disappeared from their youth made her think of him. She slipped the words ‘I love you’ from her mouth, raised her glass and questioned the sky.
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More Than Music.
Empty my glass of red,
I no longer count,
Sat here for hours,
Looking out over Oxford,
The city I no longer know.
This old room,
The junction of many stories,
Sometimes lets escape
The words of my memory;
Everything that is free and that sings,
One day, trembles, sniggers and dies.
Confusion descends on me,
Like an avalanche,
I wonder why I feel glad for a moment,
Voice slightly choked,
I think about the time we danced.
You told me that everything was getting better,
That we could find truth and kiss without a shudder,
I hung both my bare arms around your neck,
My head rested on your shoulder.
We had more than music,
We had our attitude towards life,
A way of walking,
A language and costume,
We,
Who never belonged anywhere before,
Now felt somewhere at last.
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For JB Hammond.
In October, the days are shorter and here I am still standing. Sometimes, however, I feel weak and my knees bend when faced with hurt that beats. Suppose it is true that there is no right and wrong in this world? Through curses, tears and violence, fears and blindness disguise their similarity: our secret loneliness.
In the café on Old Headington High Street, Johnny serves us our usual coffees and in the building in front of me, behind some old curtains I see a young child cry. The window doesn’t soak up the sound of his screams but does enough for us to ignore them. A pigeon trots looking lost beside our feet and with our backs to the wall, we sit and read.
It doesn’t take me much for me to think of him. Love, it’s like an addiction; it’s like a stab in the heart. I like it when he says (or is it me that makes him say it?) “ Now that you’re in my boat, shall we rock it together?” With this soft thought, my eyes fail to comprehend how strange it is to be alive where we both dress in black.
I never told him how alone and naked I felt before I met him. I had been worn down from the passage of time: the roads I once followed were empty and I knew the twists almost by heart. If only now my heart were made of stone, it would have been a perfect day to shape the others upon.
This moment will never find itself again.
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Cowboy
Worn Levis.
Torn shirt.
Grinding my teeth, grinding my teeth, “hey” I said “Throw me a cigarette”.
I took a match out of the box that was on the table and made my cigarette glow in the dark. It hung from my lips. Being the source of my parent’s shame gave me the strength to be a thief. I’d always wanted to steal. As a kid, I’d always loved watching old cowboy flicks. I especially loved the moments when the villain and the hero started to shoot it out. It blew my mind. All that grief and for what? For nothing. There was no need. Senseless. Mindless destruction. A life that goes from bad to worse.
There ain’t no time for romance. Romance is dead. I got the conviction of sin. So, having said that, let’s not worry about the future. Let’s get out of here.
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If Anyone Tries to Hurt You
If anyone tries to hurt you,
Repeat their name in your saliva,
And spit,
Immediately.
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Reality Is Our State of Mind
Whether we sleep or wake, run or walk, use a microscope or a telescope or the naked eye, man never discovers anything, never succeeds or leaves any traces behind him, but himself. Whatever he says or whatever he does, he will only ever be aware of himself. If he is in love, he knows love, if he is in heaven, he knows happiness, if he is in hell he knows sufferance. It is his spirit, his state of mind that determines where he is and where he finds himself. The power of the mind is immense. Reality is in our head. Reality is our state of mind.
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The Voyager
On which mountain did you set up camp and sleep? Although I had a good time in the mountains, I admit that the journey brought me nothing. I also admit that I was not expecting any fruit either. The journey wasn’t simple enough and nor was it adventurous. You must before anything, travel still in your imagination. Forget the mountains. It is in yourself that you must live like a voyager.
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I Came Home
I came home, not long ago, to the glorious place I called ‘Solitude’, where, we constantly meet our friends, where we imagine the world outside our heart to be filled with people. Don’t believe in one word that I write. We all ignore the fact that we suffer. We ignore the fact that we miss society. Everything is calmer now that I don’t smoke. And if I did, I’d still be smoking inside my home. Um sorry I mean my head. No. My home.
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Are You Aware Of This Glorious Day? (My bed, my thoughts, my pleasure)
My Thoughts Are. My Pleasure.
It’s never too late or too early to learn something. Here is something that I want to write about, to tell you about my life, the way that it is, to remind you of yours, that you don’t always really live, even when there is light in the day. “Are you awake?” I say. “Are you aware of this glorious day?” And so I wake up late. Today. Once again. I try to wake myself up. I tear away the sleep from my eyes. Most times when I wake, I am unaware, just absorbing the gentle light seeping in through the gap in the curtains. Absorbing the heat or even the cold leaving my feet to be tickled by the humidity. Should I rejoice to be alive and wake? For being my age? ‘Paradise might well please me more’ I think to myself. How important are my eyes to be open? Maybe I should transform myself into a living tree that gives leaves, flowers and carries fruit?
I recognise myself for what I am and for the things that I hate. My actions ricochet. I never cease to be surprised by the day, constantly satisfying those little desires of nothing – the simple sensation of existing is all. How sweet is my dream. How simple. How I laugh. In bed. Out loud. At my simple thoughts.
My simple thoughts are my richness. No bank will ever take strip me of this richness as my thoughts are my pleasure. My Pleasure. To sleep or to rest. But whatever. I like to wake up late. And stay. In bed. My thoughts are. My. Pleasure.
