So Close, Lemonseed

Alright, that’s it.

I wanna be there. I’m dying for it, gagging for it, lusting for it in a carnal way that attacks my bones. And it sits in all the pictures with people crossing two and fro – not knowing what they’ve got. And maybe it’s not so great, but I want it. I want it! I’m pleased that I want it. I’m pleased knowing that all my flitting aspirations halted when it came to this, that all my worried doubts about losing passion, losing love, losing life: fuck it. Fuck them.

Cuz it stuck. It sticks. I see the pictures and the paintings and I get all tip-toes and leans.

Reaching through the glass I see myself among them, among the nothing, and I’ll loop an arm around the lamp-post and swing this way and that, tipping my head to the winds.

And God can make up for what he’s done.

Right?

So maybe I’m not so perfect. Maybe I haven’t got the assets yet. Maybe my scarf will look a fright and I’ll be the rump of the land. I don’t CARE! Not about any of them. Only the land. The rolling, stiff, cold land. The cold of the touch, the brusk of the cement.

And if it isn’t there, okay. Okay. Because it’s the feeling, the feeling that I seek. And will keep seeking. I’ve got at least a few years, yeah? No run-ins with monsters or sharks, permitting.

I’ll find it.

So take me in, England. I’m leaving all and leaving everything. And right now I’ve never felt so stupid. Or never felt so happy for it.

STUPID. :)

.me.