Walking Backwards
I’m getting too much small town talk from the man at the end of my street. I would like him, as politely as possible, to shut the fuck up. You see I have this recurring nightmare where a man in a dick tracy hat reminds me in whispers that if I could just remember my dreams, those nocturnal screens, then I could get ahead of the pack and the pacemaker who’s running just a little too fast. But I always awake and find that all the paint has dried on a canvas that’s far too big. I would’ve named my masterpiece ‘Cerulean’ for your likeness to the sea but one point perspective took it out of me. One point perspective is going to ruin me.
Now Joe and Jenny have fallen out at the bar. All it takes is an unfortunate misplaced word in an ill-timed, crude remark. It’s all too much, I just can’t get my head around any of this childish shit. So I turn my focus on the playlist playing far too loud and as the dial blows on my bullshit-o-meter and my social battery plummets significantly below zero ‘Ambulance Blues’ starts playing me out. I’m trying my best not to cry but it’s so damned hard when you only focus on what was and what will be.
I hold an imaginary camera to my eye to reveal a perfect image of the love of my life. She’s dressed in black from head to toe with a hesitant smile starting to grow. I hold the image in my mind. I’ll see the shapes, the colours and tones. I’ll remember her face in Kodachrome.
Do you want to know what true love feels like? It’s photographic, in an instant you’ll know. In the morning you see her shining and you just know. A chemical fever, I cant even see her face in this light but the red lights make me wonder “would I do anything for her?” It’s a private oath I’ll swear to myself in the half light as I emerge from the bar. Where warmed up faces shimmer slightly.
You can call me crazy. It’s not my name but if you say it’s fine.
I’m getting too much small town talk from the man at the end of my street. I would like him, as politely as possible, to shut the fuck up. You see I have this recurring nightmare where a man in a dick tracy hat reminds me in whispers that if I could just remember my dreams, those nocturnal screens, then I could get ahead of the pack and the pacemaker who’s running just a little too fast. But I always awake and find that all the paint has dried on a canvas that’s far too big. I would’ve named my masterpiece ‘Cerulean’ for your likeness to the sea but one point perspective took it out of me. One point perspective is going to ruin me.
Now Joe and Jenny have fallen out at the bar. All it takes is an unfortunate misplaced word in an ill-timed, crude remark. It’s all too much, I just can’t get my head around any of this childish shit. So I turn my focus on the playlist playing far too loud and as the dial blows on my bullshit-o-meter and my social battery plummets significantly below zero ‘Ambulance Blues’ starts playing me out. I’m trying my best not to cry but it’s so damned hard when you only focus on what was and what will be.
I hold an imaginary camera to my eye to reveal a perfect image of the love of my life. She’s dressed in black from head to toe with a hesitant smile starting to grow. I hold the image in my mind. I’ll see the shapes, the colours and tones. I’ll remember her face in Kodachrome.
Do you want to know what true love feels like? It’s photographic, in an instant you’ll know. In the morning you see her shining and you just know. A chemical fever, I cant even see her face in this light but the red lights make me wonder “would I do anything for her?” It’s a private oath I’ll swear to myself in the half light as I emerge from the bar. Where warmed up faces shimmer slightly.
You can call me crazy. It’s not my name but if you say it’s fine.