WHERE ARE YOU GOING?:

I’m going to the shower,
Wash the smoke machine off me,
The smoke of cigarettes off me,
The sting in the eyes I haven’t felt for years,
No,
I tell a lie,
It was that night in a Berlin club,
The band with the random lap top,
And fluttering drummer,
And the guy who jammed a screwdriver
Between the strings of his vintage Fender,
Remember?
The pickups sounded great,
Well,
I had a revelation that night,
All the answers to our problems,
Speed writing in a corner of the club,
I think I freaked your friends out,
And in return they made my clothes stink,
I think that was the last time I breathed cigarettes,
No,
I tell a lie,
It was in the smoking garden of a North London pub,
Under strings of fairy lights,
With a girl in t-shirt & jeans
Who thought she was a sound engineer,
She mixed your sound like crap,
I wrote it down in a corner,
Over soda & lime,
And a friend with his girlfriend,
I don’t think he liked it,
But she danced to the music looking happy,
So I think she did,
I’m going for a shower,
But the smoke at the back of my eyes wont come out,
It stings,
And not even these bananas,
Nor these spicy nuts,
Can take it away
As I climb into the white car with 6 O’clock Dave,
He keeps his head shaved,
As we drive to the airport,
It goes with his skinny black jacket & jeans,
And the cream leather interior of his luxury wheels,
All the way to the sky,
When I get home I’m going to shower it all off,
Especially that smell,
At the side of the stage,
Of bottled gas from caravanning summers,
No one could smell it as I wiped my face with tiny towels,
Tiny towels for tiny singers

 

(K)