If I could have a second skin, please?

October 5, 2010 § Leave a comment

Thank you. You found my face on the train and added it to your collection. And I have rivals; I don’t mind. I won’t complain. I’m a wee bird and a bit, why, I’ve been called ‘hen’ twice since I arrived. And I’ve mentioned that in my songs.

Buying milk is beneath new guitar strings on my list. Stop reading into everything. I can outweigh nothing and no one so get used to this please.

It’s time to start listening to Joy Division again? I think not. The needs of my ears have changed, that why it’s all “Sparrow and the Workshop” and “God help the Glaswegian Girl”. You ain’t helping by sitting in your basement with an instrument. You don’t give a shit about women or women’s problems or gender injustices. I get you, and I know you glamourise the tragedy. That’s okay, just don’t let it stick, for you’ll be remembered for being not what or whom you are, but whom and what you cared for. And what you did, you nutter, to save their sanity. You’ve not done much so far. But it’s okay I can forgive anyone for anything, I’d just rather not be a face in your photographic memory whom you felt all fey and sorry for. And did nothing to rescue her, y’know, save writing a song. What a satire, sir.

Thanks, I’ll accept the starting line, and finish this one myself. You know nothing of an ovum. I know nothing of heartbreaking. I wouldn’t even know how or where to begin. It just makes me mad that you waste your gift and goodness on predictable tradegy rather than the scary-as-chew-it-up reality. The demise of a head in the clouds. We all run out of air and heartbeats when our blacking out it comes. Think of it as glass. A window sheathed. Is your end venentians? Tassled curtains? Hemmed? Or a brick that decided it would take flight at 3am through your end?

I know nowt. And there I am, caring too much again. Trying to save the broken, when ‘just get a new one’ but I know, I KNOW, because someone or something saved me and I want to give this chance and opportunity to our so-called community our children and our whole whole whole. Who says it was me, I am my own saviour and I’m a wee fighter at times. Perhaps they are right; the voice in my head is peculiarly like my own at times. Often it is my mother’s. More often than not, it is my end’s, my ghost’s.

All I know is: there is a voice and it speaks. And I listen, even when I’m watching foxes fly across the subway in the early hours, or watching you perform your vision your expression your pretension your idea of what and who I am. When you know nothing and I, too, know nothing.

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