Play Me Till The End of The World

Come. I invite you. Here to the end of the world

I wake up and think of all the people waking up today with panic attacks, post-nightmares, hotel fucks, mistresses and young lovers, teenagers. Film stars. Old sleazy men, hot men. All of them awake somewhere in the world, in this city, a city of angels, infused with demons

My desire for an escape, a fist – white hot – smashing time’s clock-face; we get tired of our cities and the same mornings - how do I escape the routine when I have to go to bed every night and wake up every morning?

I am in flames, throwing up triviality. These are the extremes - frightened poor people and bored rich people and me in-between

I can’t get up. I lie in my unmade,

unslept in, fuckless bed.

My fingers stretch into spans of horizon, jazz hands lurking for inspiration, a muse dripping in gold liquid, painfully desperate and waiting to be discovered; Your piano hands and our brief piano evening in Notting Hill, you played me and against all common sense I still love you. We cannot at that instant be anything but what we are

and I am a fool

You win. Every time.

Play. Play me more.

I am cut open. I wait for life to be poured inside me. I wait wait wait. I wish I’d be immortal so I could wait forever. The anticipation of life is greater than life itself

Rivers of time merge into a mighty swell - red wine all over me; the rat life isn’t over, it’s just moved to our homes. We are afraid, every hour dissolving like snowflakes, ecstatic and joyous about it as if it were something to be happy about, proud of or in control of

I know I’ll never dissolve and I’ll never joyfully comply with the damaged leftovers of a society we are all slowly and deliriously being bought into, I know it even when I reek of insecurity

And...

I see you -

smiling at my eternal wanderings