Sunday 4th June

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)

3 thoughts on “Sunday 4th June

  1. …and the furious echo in the Slaughterhouse, overwhelmed by the rhythm… the rhythm… the rhythm…the rhythm…the rhythm…
    Keep away from the dark side.

    Yours forever… not so I ever had a doubt.

  2. … und Du bist Dir wirklich ganz sicher, dass Du nicht einmal etwas anderes probieren möchtest, als immer nur diesen gleichen, monoton abscheulichen Nebel ?! :/

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