8 July 2012

 Another calm.

What have we here, laddie? Mysterious scribblings? A secret code? Noo, poems, no less. Poems, everybody. That laddie's making himself a poet.

Money gets back
I'm all right Jack
Keep your hands
Off my stack
New car
Four star
Day dream
Think I'll buy me
A football team.

Absurd rubbish, laddie. Get on with your work. Repeat after me.

After a million times of listening to this over the years. And revisiting this after the end of time.
I discover I live here.

To some this doesn't belong but in a parallel universe I'd be belting this out drunk karaoke thinking it my own and only mine.

I think this is just going very chronologically. I cannot will not make sure because this is not the time of day when I google things. I just rant and linkblog. Ditto pitchy karaoke.

I realise I cannot completely relate to all the lyrics of this song. I think yet. And I hope, I just hope not, that I end up making it my own any time in the future, distant or tomorrow. I can sometimes superficially and semi angstify it as me.

And this just because. It's funny and I was in love with it once. And it's a random happy moment.
The whip. And because Hugh Grant is perfection. And it's the 80s.

If we're on the topic of love. It is not topical. I knew when I found surreality. 
Inspired a poem and a blog which only has two posts of promise.
And nothing else.

For when two people on this earth was enough. My version, my time. My own. If I lay here. If I just lay here. Would you lie with me and just forget the world? (We know the answer to that, don't we?)

Forget what we're told. BEFORE WE GET TOO OLD.
Show me a garden that's bursting into life.
Let's waste time. Chasing cars. Around our heads.
I need your grace. To remind me. To find my own.

All that I am. All that I ever was. Is here in your perfect eyes. They're all I can see.
I don't know when. Confused about how as well. Just know that these things will never change for us at all.

Because sometime somewhere in my mind it meant something. A little something.
Somewhere along in the bitterness.

And to the meat and potatoes of the grand dinner that is life, let us clink some wedding glasses against each other and kill the bride. This is it.

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