Watching the park quieten from the hotel window, I hear you softly sleep, amongst the cars and saluting songbirds.
For a city whose size had scared me for years right now it’s a feeble evening raw, not un-similar to a beach evening ending.
On the table to my left there’s a magazine with a picture of dead monkey, making a mockery of what I’d call art, but what would I know about the scene in the city that has swallowed up friends lovers and family.
Just give a village the size of a teacup.
You’re happier here spread out with your eyes closed,
I feel I should order a drink in celebration to welcome the summer, whose first day is ending, but should you wake you’d catch me of course and ask me the wisdom of drinking once more.
I cast my mind back to yesterdays wedding where we got drunk and fell over
I did my best to be polite to a family I’d never met, but on numerous occasions, I guess, I could have tried harder.
Of course by the end of the night I was best friends with everyone and everyones wife but right now I couldn’t remember their names no matter how hard I try
As the sun glares through the hotel window I wonder of our future and where it will lead to,
I wonder if you’ll be laying there 10 years, 20 years, 30 years down the line,
I’ll still be staring out at the street confused about love and life,
It’ll be interesting to see if anyone every bought those songs of mine, if anyone heard those words that I never got… quite right.
I think I can be honest in presuming the world is not exactly going to be leaping out its bed to make me rich using my songs in adverts selling oranges… or lemons.
Who knows I may end up owning the whole street, or more likely, sleeping under tree in the park opposite.
Would the runners keep me awake or would I keep them asleep?
I hope I’d have the sense to move back home, as lovely as today is, I‘d imagine the winter would be rather cold.
I’d been told for years that the devil had the best tunes and that the devil lived down here, whereas us country folk weren’t worth the salt from the road.
Ex-pat magazine editors who choose to lose their temper on the easily persuaded northern town dwellers.
And sure enough, 99 percent of the people I meet have scant regard for entertaining me, it seems I’m too old and too slow and too quiet and just wrong. And I’m glad.
In their cocaine fuelled electronic cabarets I’ll be the man at the bar drinking overpriced whiskey from a barmaid who’s to good to catch my eye, as she only works here two nights a week, the rest of the time she’s a singer on a rock and roll band…
I bet she’d change her tune if I told her my album had peaked at number 172 and that I also had friends who worked in bars and that didn’t define who they are… Though it certainly helps their capacity to drink.
But I’ve strayed off the subject, and now I’ll be leaning over and waking you up, and you’ll squint at me through the cracks between your eyelids, woozy with cider.
As if you’re asking exactly where we are and exactly what I wanted.
And I’ll be happy because we won’t be taking anything too seriously.