Saturday Night, Sunday Morning

I can only offer myself up as a sacrificial lamb but please do not hold that knife too close, let me say my piece and then we shall see who loved her, who left her, and who needed her.

Put away that cold, cold gun, and put your jacket upon the hook.  Please take your time and do not judge me before you have heard my words, my pleas, and my love for her that did burn a thousand older lovers.

We met at the crossroads half eleven at night, the film had finished and I was wandering lonely and lost.  We came across each other on opposite paths, our eyes met across the street.

Nothing needed to be said, nothing needed to be motioned, what we had we had it for that night in my old hotel room, which crowded and small, our bodies stretched across that single bed.

Before I could say no, before I could say go, before I knew what was falling I was in over my head.  Don’t hold that knife too close, my head is heavy and I am tired, I’m not sure that tonight I could put up much of a fight.

If I see you again at the old Chelsea hotel, I’ll do well to hold away, to take my body and to cross the sea, to never bother you again.

But in my breast, against my heart, I shall carry the memories of her forever.

Hold your hand, hold it tight, we only spent the night together that once.  When I look in the mirror so my body does shiver at the thoughts of what could be.  You have it all and I have just my old acoustic guitar.  Cold and worn, broken besides.

My friend you have won without ever raising a weapon against me.  It is true that your wife and I made love, that we reveled in the lust of two bodies conjoined.  It is true we moaned our way through the small hours, but that was just the night, oh it was just the night.

What I did, and what I said, I cannot make it right and I will not put up a fight.  You have my word, you have my promise – I shall never see her again.  The flick of her hair, the arched eyebrow, those are the memories within me.  I shall go, oh I will go, but where my weary feet do take me I have no idea.  I just carry on down this dusty road for one.

A Visit to the Beech Hotel

You wouldn’t think with my violent history that I’d miss working the streets but I do.  I used to love hugging the brick walls in the late evening, my fingers feeling each gap in the mortar coursing, just waiting under the soft orange glow of the overhead lights.  I owned those streets, even if I disappeared for an hour or two in-between my mute watch.  You wouldn’t believe it but I felt a silent power in my prostate prose: I was in charge, I was the one you gave the money to.

Reading this I know you’ll disagree, you’ll think I’m daft or stupid – misguided at best, abused at worst.

I remember you well in the crowned hotel suite.  It wasn’t the city setting or tipping of the concierge that impressed me, it was your wry smile, the hand holding and the delicate kisses.  It was the dream that I lived in this moment for much longer than those dollar bills suggested.  I knew I’d return to my own corner soon enough, that I’d feel the sharp edge of a winter’s night once more plucking at my pale skin, but in that moment I didn’t care.

You gave me a way out of this job and I took it.  But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss those streets even as you returned home after a hard day of work at the office.  I am chained here, just as I was to those bricks.

A Blues Dance

I see the bus a-rolling, heading down to Centenary Square,

But my mind is all over and I can’t hop a-board.

Can’t you see my dear, I am too tired to move and I need my rest,

Let that sharp little needle stab my skin, let it mix with my blood,

Let me just get my hit and I will handle it.

 

I see the bus a-rolling, heading down to Centenary Square,

But my mind is all over and I can’t hop a-board.

I got into a fight last night, fought a man and brought him down,

Now I’m missing a tooth or two, but don’t that mean any-thing.

I got my dreams but I have lost my hopes.

 

I see the bus a-rolling, heading down to Centenary Square,

But my mind is all over and I can’t hop a-board.

It is Tuesday every-day, but Wednesday is my own,

I take my girl out, let her drop that broom to the floor.

Sweep clean, she is my dream.

 

I see the bus a-rolling, heading down to Centenary Square,

But my mind is all over and I can’t hop a-board.

The rain is falling, oh how the rain falls,

Let the clouds break, bring on that torrent down.

I feel lighter with each exploding drop.

angel23