Two punks, hands dug into pockets, wordless and slow moving –
the train pulling in and the doors attacked, flies to the corpse.
Hanging back in time I let them…
I don’t pay my way but still get there – Rising stink of grass and rain, we get shovelled out onto the pavement all in totally different places. I feel the buzz from the second or third – head whipped up and spilled on the cold road. I need the garden not the pit. Let these fuckers shake the hands for me.
The stick settles the spirits. I lean away from the fire and the crowds. I have copper thinking – Tired n sick. Passionate Junky. Networked Freak.
I say the same thing over and over: Personal / Political.
I walk into the place – boiling white faces crashing and breaking in waves, great heaving smile at the door – why did I look for it? Digging into the night, crawling through the bodies, the place is full of structure, proper guidelines to assemble. the others have joined the fashion show –– the corporate congregation turn on each other instead of the violence of our setting. this place an island, luxury resort with high walls, the whole thing needs shaking into action.
I have a relaxing anger- grass, beer – you mishear me in a crowd, far apart with arms touching.
I look for relation in a streamlined tunnel; try to exist in the opposite way, blank reaction from a disappointed mother. I don’t act to communicate. I bring my own.