THE DUKE ON
DOWN IN ALBION
BY BABYSHAMBLES
DOWN IN ALBION
BY BABYSHAMBLES
See them there, thousands of the poor bastards, feet red-raw an
fingers bent back to the elbows, eyes gnashin an teeth weepin, this
pitiful parade making its way cross the sands, dust an dirt an
blood every which way.
Now and again, someone somewheres near the back, they find a copy
of the NME held fast in the grip a some emaciated traveller never
made it past the dunes. Prising it free, scanning every spit-
flecked page, and there it is, right there.
“Babyshambles Album Due 14th November”
And lo, the jubilation.
“It’s coming!! It’s coming, I say!”
The banks a the river, folks wi’ the soil a lost civilisations
trapped in the hair hangin over the faces, chewin locusts an
drinkin the sweat a buffalo, all of them looking skyward, the
hell's this, tell me now, what is this right here, descending from
the heavens, all shimmerin an coated in biro-scrawl, the hell is
it, I say?
Uncertainty siftin long the hairlines, it can’t be, don’t be
getting all worked up now, y’hear, next we thing we know the disc
melts in the hands, next thing we know the artwork, torn straight
out The Books Of Albion, next thing we know it runs down the wrists
an we’re holdin nothing but the ideal, next thing we know it’s back
in the direction of Acoustic Lullaby thinking bout what the record
maybe coulda sounded like, if’n it had ever escaped from the mixin
desk.
Stood outside taverns, the multitudes feverishly awaitin
confirmation, and then, what’s this up ahead, fella appearin out
the haze of the horizon, shouting and waving his hands in the air,
“It’s here! It’s here!”
In his hand, Down In Albion, it arrived, it arrived on God’s own
shoulder-blades!
And sat at the bar, fella sniffin the rocks off the back a the hand.
“The fuck do I care? I downloaded it a month ago.”
But fuck him, see, fuck his arse, he doesn’t understand, it means
something, this album, it represents something or other, who the
hell knows what, but something, yes.
It legitimises the occasional disappointment, the shockingly half-
arsed approach to the whole Being In A Band tomfoolery what
Babyshambles have appropriated. It’s a result, see, after the
horrors of The Libertines disintegrating, after the spells in rehab
facilitations and prisons and the countless shows cancelled, re-
scheduled and cancelled again.
Cause in the back of the mind, always, the threat; What if they
never do make that record. What if it all falls apart here and now
and whatever ends up on the shelves represents some tiny fraction
of what coulda been, as opposed to what shoulda been, yes, what had
to be.
What had to be was a record that justified the torments.
“Shut your bastard yap!” someone hollers, “Get your ears on,
fucker, listen to this!”
That sinister, creepin guitar line, those choppin chords, and there
he is, Pete, the voice crawlin cross these needle-decked junk-sick
sheets;
“I’ll tell you a story but you won’t listen,
It’s about a nightmare steeped in tradition,
It’s the story of a coked-up pansy
Spends his nights in flights of fancy”
La Belle Et La Bete, lurchin up gainst the mesh a the speakers,
peerin out with the stink-eye here to Venus, some kinda scraggy-
arsed hoodlum grunting in the corners of a Dickensian night-terror.
“Risen Jandek! It’s Conversation Diva!”
It is, renamed an re-jigged an with added Love Interest, yes.
And astounding, oppressive, catches a fella by the lungs, DT’s
granted melody.
The shadows, the grinding, the threat of… something, something
results in dead limbs hangin useless over 19th century hospital
beds an up above the ghosts a lovers neglected screechin the lungs
out their spectral faces.
“Is she more beautiful than me?”
Is that Kate Moss? It is Kate Moss, there she is, perfectly
situated midst the grime, and yet thank fuck, I say, she appears
for only a couple lines (no pun, bastard).
Last thing anyone needs is some kinda Double Fantasy mania
careering cross the grooves, last thing we need is “In the middle
of a bath I call your name…”
Different kinda love affair goin on here, yes, related by some
fella wanders into some Camden dive or other, kinda place where the
chat “turns evil” all too easily, wants to tell them bout a fella
and his muse, and look at those scornful glares, look at them,
beautiful girl she is, what’s she doin wi that bastard, spent all
her money on the whiskey-cracks, he did.
And that sinister arachnid bass-line tip-toein cross the soundways.
The murk, the grot, the eyes hangin to the shins, the red raw
remnants a every blink clinging to the lashes.
The wind flingin all Job’s tribulations gainst the stained glass
windows a the boozer, the clouds racin cross the sky like the
ethereal flashes took to the heavens at the end a Fantasia.
A half-glimpsed opium nightmare, a craggle-toothed lament, a…
“Fuck forever! If you don’t mind!”
Hell’s fire, Fuck Forever, that glorious flick-knife serenade,
reapin euphoria from the rotten troughs a nihilism, ain’t anyone
done it so good since Johnny Rotten bent 90 degrees off the stage
and spat “No future!” cross the lens.
“I read your article on that!” a fella shouts.
Thanks for the kind words!
“It sucked!”
The hell does he know, knows nothing, less than nothing, knows
nothing of the dancing in the farmyard wi the trilby an the union
jack hung shit-stained o’er the speaker stack.
Knows nothing, I say, of the “five mile queue outside the disused
power station”, the “violence at dole-queues”, the “Reebok classics
and cannons at dawn”, all a this summoned in Albion, finally here,
all those nights spent with the half-finished fragmented renditions
on those sublime acoustic downloads, all a them caught round the
battered knees an brought together as one glorious entity, arrives
near the fag-end of the record, it’s the soul of the damn thing,
right there, Pete cooin in the direction of a “pale faced girl with
eyes forlorn”.
This is where we’re headed, this is what we were aiming for, see,
way back when, back when Pete and Carl had the arms round one
another an coughin o’er the mic with one tongue less than a
tooth’s-width from the other, when it was “Did you see the stylish
kids in the riot?”, when the sails fluttered like the tights round
the ankles on a Saturday night out back the church car-park, when
the eyes glistened like the sweat on the foreheads a the fellas
finding out where that path down there leads to, anyroad?
Leads here, they’re saying, and a kiss, and it’s runnin for the
last bus.
Albion, with a couple a Blake’s seraphim sat on the rocks by the
shore, with the waters the colour a madness.
And fragmented, the crew, but still searching, still with the scent
a “coffee wallahs and pith helmets” clingin to the lips.
All those paths, all those roads;
“We’re on the one road, maybe the wrong road,
It’s the road to fuck knows where”
Loyalty Song, arrives on the coat-tails a Albion and Back From The
Dead, like the sun rising cross the spasamin fists a La Belle Et La
Bette.
“What did I dream?”
The heart rises in the gut-sauce, beatin up gainst the tonsils, the
throat swellin, recedin, swellin, recedin.
Harmonica weaving in and out Patrick Walden’s guitar-lines.
“What did I dream?”
I dreamt the Village Green Preservation Society giving birth to a
generation a frustrated bedroom troubadours an gutter poets.
I dreamt the fella givin the walls a talking in A Pair Of Brown Eyes
wakin up in a bus terminal with nothing but the melancholy for
company, with the voices singin behind him;
“You should get some sun on your face,
You’ve been sat there like a lord in that bath-tub for days,
Feel as though I don’t even know you”
Merry Go Round, the final five and a half minutes of Down In
Albion, track 16, or maybe 16-Babyshambles-MerryGoRound-
DownInAlbionPreview if you plucked it out the guts a those torrent
sites a few weeks back.
Screams from the sidelines;
“It’s hangin in pieces! I fuckin adore it!”
Mick Jones wanderin into the studio, say fuck you now, hear me, I
was in The Clash, you’ll do it like I say, and how I say is Urgent,
yes, Spontaneous, yes, Raw As The Fuck-Juice A The Damned!
With the producer hat on, hides the bald-spot, best producer in the
UK it turns out, what with those Libertines albums and now this,
now this beautiful fragile punk-rock tapestry.
With the ska dalliances of a fair portion of the tracks, the likes
of What Katie Did Next and Sticks And Stones paving the way for the
stripped-bare reggae of Pentonville, performed primarily by Pete’s
old cell-mate in said establishment, General Santana.
“A-Wing, B-Wing, C-Wing and G-Wing,
Come help I sing”
With the beautiful melodic pop of A’Rebour with it’s far-too-
familiar refrain;
“If you really cared for me,
Christ knows you’d let me be”
Worrying sentiments from a fella in the situation Pete Doherty’s
done gone found himself in.
(Fleetin memories; Sat in the passenger seat on the way back home
post-cells, explaining, you don’t understand see, I just take a
drink is all, no harm in it, fuck my eyes, no harm. A moment of
reflection, or thanksgiving, midst the romantic flights of decadent
notionry.)
With the Hammond organ hammered into the creases a The 32nd Of
December, for a second it’s 1989 and all anyone wants to know is
how to stretch the bottom of the trousers far enough to fit sixteen
cows in every leg, and the head boppin, and the guilt an the
remorse lain grin-mawed an wild-eyed on the bed, laughin, yeah,
there’s bitterness, but dig that Hammond!
“Did anybody thank you or fuck me?”
“Don’t wanna talk about it”
“The night I’m tryin so hard to forget”
And the dancing, a man can almost catch a glimpse a Bez shakin the
maracas whilst the horror of being the cunt nobody likes at the
party goes on around him.
“If you ask me nicely then I’ll go”
Like Bill Hicks spittin at that audience back in the day, “Right,
fuck this, I’m off”, and then the cheer. “Well just for that I’m
gonna do another fuckin twenty minutes!”
The party, where’s the vibes, for fucks sakes? “Can you play No
Fun?” Pete asks in the middle of Pipedown, and sure enough, there
it is, those phallic chords thrustin gainst the jaws a the tune for
a moment.
“Paddy, put the pipe down!”
And the response belatedly arriving in the form of In Love With A
Feeling;
“They would if they could, but they can’t…
I’m in love with a feeling and I know that it shows”
Walden proving his worth again, the brilliantly bizarre woop-woop
noises risin from the fretboard, some kinda grot-rock Tom Morello,
turns out.
And that wistful, vaguely-nostalgic air.
The guts of the whole affair, right there. The horrific and the
nightmarish an the taunting and the snarling, and yet, Pete’s
voice, his whole damn demeanour, that care-free (not lazy, mind,
not some sorta slacker shtick, no) mood he brings even to lines as
loaded wi venom as “When it suits you, you’re a friend of mine”
from 8 Dead Boys, with the brilliantly back-handed compliments of
the chorus;
“Oh, you look better now than last time,
But you still look better from afar”
Wanderin up Botanic in Belfast with the lass makes my dreams sound
like the opening of Killamangiro, she’s asking me;
“But I gotta know, is it better than Up The Bracket?”
And the answer, a cop-out, and she’s in there fore I get it out the
yap. “And don’t just say it’s different.”
But what more can a man say, tell me, it’s a different beast
entirely, one that, first time you approach it, just wants to
bubble and hiss over in the corner, the sheets clinging to every
limb, the eyes twitchin in the sockets. A veil a impenetrable
darkness, and then look, look see, the closer you get, the more
pronounced the joy in the beast’s cheekbones becomes.
It’s right there in Killamangiro, in fact, re-recorded since it was
released as a single, wasn’t gonna be on the record, apparently,
till Mick Jones got all excited around the sneaky-bastard-gland an
taped a rehearsal, unbeknownst to the band.
So the piercingly naked “On the off-chance that you’re listening to
the radio, I thought you might like to know you broke my heart”
from that earlier top-10 scaling version, it becomes a half-uttered
sorta-lyric;
“On the off chance that you’re listenin…
Thought you might like to know…
La la la la”
No sense worryin about keeping the bitterness and the hurt in check
when the studio’s trembling with the weight of the glee on display.
And the night alive wi bust yap smiles.
But it has to happen;
The record comin to an end sometimes around 6 in the AM, god knows
how many repeat spins, god knows how many choruses scrawled cross
the shit-house walls a the brain.
Soon enough, dawn-light crossin the notebook.
A quick text message, something long the lines of “Albion. Now when
I think about it, I saw it for a second when you scribbled cross
these pages a couple nights ago.”
The lights off, the headphones on, Shaking And Withdrawn Megamix,
something to mingle with the sleepers in the corners a the psyche.
Sleep, with its wedding-veil whispers draped round a fella, feelin
the kinda safety he felt for a moment in the arms of a girl stood
outside Auntie Annie’s on a rain-lashed November night, yes.
And Pete, what’s he singing?
“True hearts and minds and melodies,
They’re said to cure all known maladies,
So sing along…”
And singing along, yes. Sing, for fucks sakes! Fuck the sleep, I
say, “Time enough for sleepin when we’re dead” like The Magnetic
Fields announced, and the curtains open anew, the sun, how you been
you beautiful old fucker, how bout you let me take your hand for
this dance?
Careful, I’m allergic to scalding.
“Are you from round here?
How do you do?
I’d like to talk about that…”
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Sign The Mondo Guestbook
fingers bent back to the elbows, eyes gnashin an teeth weepin, this
pitiful parade making its way cross the sands, dust an dirt an
blood every which way.
Now and again, someone somewheres near the back, they find a copy
of the NME held fast in the grip a some emaciated traveller never
made it past the dunes. Prising it free, scanning every spit-
flecked page, and there it is, right there.
“Babyshambles Album Due 14th November”
And lo, the jubilation.
“It’s coming!! It’s coming, I say!”
The banks a the river, folks wi’ the soil a lost civilisations
trapped in the hair hangin over the faces, chewin locusts an
drinkin the sweat a buffalo, all of them looking skyward, the
hell's this, tell me now, what is this right here, descending from
the heavens, all shimmerin an coated in biro-scrawl, the hell is
it, I say?
Uncertainty siftin long the hairlines, it can’t be, don’t be
getting all worked up now, y’hear, next we thing we know the disc
melts in the hands, next thing we know the artwork, torn straight
out The Books Of Albion, next thing we know it runs down the wrists
an we’re holdin nothing but the ideal, next thing we know it’s back
in the direction of Acoustic Lullaby thinking bout what the record
maybe coulda sounded like, if’n it had ever escaped from the mixin
desk.
Stood outside taverns, the multitudes feverishly awaitin
confirmation, and then, what’s this up ahead, fella appearin out
the haze of the horizon, shouting and waving his hands in the air,
“It’s here! It’s here!”
In his hand, Down In Albion, it arrived, it arrived on God’s own
shoulder-blades!
And sat at the bar, fella sniffin the rocks off the back a the hand.
“The fuck do I care? I downloaded it a month ago.”
But fuck him, see, fuck his arse, he doesn’t understand, it means
something, this album, it represents something or other, who the
hell knows what, but something, yes.
It legitimises the occasional disappointment, the shockingly half-
arsed approach to the whole Being In A Band tomfoolery what
Babyshambles have appropriated. It’s a result, see, after the
horrors of The Libertines disintegrating, after the spells in rehab
facilitations and prisons and the countless shows cancelled, re-
scheduled and cancelled again.
Cause in the back of the mind, always, the threat; What if they
never do make that record. What if it all falls apart here and now
and whatever ends up on the shelves represents some tiny fraction
of what coulda been, as opposed to what shoulda been, yes, what had
to be.
What had to be was a record that justified the torments.
“Shut your bastard yap!” someone hollers, “Get your ears on,
fucker, listen to this!”
That sinister, creepin guitar line, those choppin chords, and there
he is, Pete, the voice crawlin cross these needle-decked junk-sick
sheets;
“I’ll tell you a story but you won’t listen,
It’s about a nightmare steeped in tradition,
It’s the story of a coked-up pansy
Spends his nights in flights of fancy”
La Belle Et La Bete, lurchin up gainst the mesh a the speakers,
peerin out with the stink-eye here to Venus, some kinda scraggy-
arsed hoodlum grunting in the corners of a Dickensian night-terror.
“Risen Jandek! It’s Conversation Diva!”
It is, renamed an re-jigged an with added Love Interest, yes.
And astounding, oppressive, catches a fella by the lungs, DT’s
granted melody.
The shadows, the grinding, the threat of… something, something
results in dead limbs hangin useless over 19th century hospital
beds an up above the ghosts a lovers neglected screechin the lungs
out their spectral faces.
“Is she more beautiful than me?”
Is that Kate Moss? It is Kate Moss, there she is, perfectly
situated midst the grime, and yet thank fuck, I say, she appears
for only a couple lines (no pun, bastard).
Last thing anyone needs is some kinda Double Fantasy mania
careering cross the grooves, last thing we need is “In the middle
of a bath I call your name…”
Different kinda love affair goin on here, yes, related by some
fella wanders into some Camden dive or other, kinda place where the
chat “turns evil” all too easily, wants to tell them bout a fella
and his muse, and look at those scornful glares, look at them,
beautiful girl she is, what’s she doin wi that bastard, spent all
her money on the whiskey-cracks, he did.
And that sinister arachnid bass-line tip-toein cross the soundways.
The murk, the grot, the eyes hangin to the shins, the red raw
remnants a every blink clinging to the lashes.
The wind flingin all Job’s tribulations gainst the stained glass
windows a the boozer, the clouds racin cross the sky like the
ethereal flashes took to the heavens at the end a Fantasia.
A half-glimpsed opium nightmare, a craggle-toothed lament, a…
“Fuck forever! If you don’t mind!”
Hell’s fire, Fuck Forever, that glorious flick-knife serenade,
reapin euphoria from the rotten troughs a nihilism, ain’t anyone
done it so good since Johnny Rotten bent 90 degrees off the stage
and spat “No future!” cross the lens.
“I read your article on that!” a fella shouts.
Thanks for the kind words!
“It sucked!”
The hell does he know, knows nothing, less than nothing, knows
nothing of the dancing in the farmyard wi the trilby an the union
jack hung shit-stained o’er the speaker stack.
Knows nothing, I say, of the “five mile queue outside the disused
power station”, the “violence at dole-queues”, the “Reebok classics
and cannons at dawn”, all a this summoned in Albion, finally here,
all those nights spent with the half-finished fragmented renditions
on those sublime acoustic downloads, all a them caught round the
battered knees an brought together as one glorious entity, arrives
near the fag-end of the record, it’s the soul of the damn thing,
right there, Pete cooin in the direction of a “pale faced girl with
eyes forlorn”.
This is where we’re headed, this is what we were aiming for, see,
way back when, back when Pete and Carl had the arms round one
another an coughin o’er the mic with one tongue less than a
tooth’s-width from the other, when it was “Did you see the stylish
kids in the riot?”, when the sails fluttered like the tights round
the ankles on a Saturday night out back the church car-park, when
the eyes glistened like the sweat on the foreheads a the fellas
finding out where that path down there leads to, anyroad?
Leads here, they’re saying, and a kiss, and it’s runnin for the
last bus.
Albion, with a couple a Blake’s seraphim sat on the rocks by the
shore, with the waters the colour a madness.
And fragmented, the crew, but still searching, still with the scent
a “coffee wallahs and pith helmets” clingin to the lips.
All those paths, all those roads;
“We’re on the one road, maybe the wrong road,
It’s the road to fuck knows where”
Loyalty Song, arrives on the coat-tails a Albion and Back From The
Dead, like the sun rising cross the spasamin fists a La Belle Et La
Bette.
“What did I dream?”
The heart rises in the gut-sauce, beatin up gainst the tonsils, the
throat swellin, recedin, swellin, recedin.
Harmonica weaving in and out Patrick Walden’s guitar-lines.
“What did I dream?”
I dreamt the Village Green Preservation Society giving birth to a
generation a frustrated bedroom troubadours an gutter poets.
I dreamt the fella givin the walls a talking in A Pair Of Brown Eyes
wakin up in a bus terminal with nothing but the melancholy for
company, with the voices singin behind him;
“You should get some sun on your face,
You’ve been sat there like a lord in that bath-tub for days,
Feel as though I don’t even know you”
Merry Go Round, the final five and a half minutes of Down In
Albion, track 16, or maybe 16-Babyshambles-MerryGoRound-
DownInAlbionPreview if you plucked it out the guts a those torrent
sites a few weeks back.
Screams from the sidelines;
“It’s hangin in pieces! I fuckin adore it!”
Mick Jones wanderin into the studio, say fuck you now, hear me, I
was in The Clash, you’ll do it like I say, and how I say is Urgent,
yes, Spontaneous, yes, Raw As The Fuck-Juice A The Damned!
With the producer hat on, hides the bald-spot, best producer in the
UK it turns out, what with those Libertines albums and now this,
now this beautiful fragile punk-rock tapestry.
With the ska dalliances of a fair portion of the tracks, the likes
of What Katie Did Next and Sticks And Stones paving the way for the
stripped-bare reggae of Pentonville, performed primarily by Pete’s
old cell-mate in said establishment, General Santana.
“A-Wing, B-Wing, C-Wing and G-Wing,
Come help I sing”
With the beautiful melodic pop of A’Rebour with it’s far-too-
familiar refrain;
“If you really cared for me,
Christ knows you’d let me be”
Worrying sentiments from a fella in the situation Pete Doherty’s
done gone found himself in.
(Fleetin memories; Sat in the passenger seat on the way back home
post-cells, explaining, you don’t understand see, I just take a
drink is all, no harm in it, fuck my eyes, no harm. A moment of
reflection, or thanksgiving, midst the romantic flights of decadent
notionry.)
With the Hammond organ hammered into the creases a The 32nd Of
December, for a second it’s 1989 and all anyone wants to know is
how to stretch the bottom of the trousers far enough to fit sixteen
cows in every leg, and the head boppin, and the guilt an the
remorse lain grin-mawed an wild-eyed on the bed, laughin, yeah,
there’s bitterness, but dig that Hammond!
“Did anybody thank you or fuck me?”
“Don’t wanna talk about it”
“The night I’m tryin so hard to forget”
And the dancing, a man can almost catch a glimpse a Bez shakin the
maracas whilst the horror of being the cunt nobody likes at the
party goes on around him.
“If you ask me nicely then I’ll go”
Like Bill Hicks spittin at that audience back in the day, “Right,
fuck this, I’m off”, and then the cheer. “Well just for that I’m
gonna do another fuckin twenty minutes!”
The party, where’s the vibes, for fucks sakes? “Can you play No
Fun?” Pete asks in the middle of Pipedown, and sure enough, there
it is, those phallic chords thrustin gainst the jaws a the tune for
a moment.
“Paddy, put the pipe down!”
And the response belatedly arriving in the form of In Love With A
Feeling;
“They would if they could, but they can’t…
I’m in love with a feeling and I know that it shows”
Walden proving his worth again, the brilliantly bizarre woop-woop
noises risin from the fretboard, some kinda grot-rock Tom Morello,
turns out.
And that wistful, vaguely-nostalgic air.
The guts of the whole affair, right there. The horrific and the
nightmarish an the taunting and the snarling, and yet, Pete’s
voice, his whole damn demeanour, that care-free (not lazy, mind,
not some sorta slacker shtick, no) mood he brings even to lines as
loaded wi venom as “When it suits you, you’re a friend of mine”
from 8 Dead Boys, with the brilliantly back-handed compliments of
the chorus;
“Oh, you look better now than last time,
But you still look better from afar”
Wanderin up Botanic in Belfast with the lass makes my dreams sound
like the opening of Killamangiro, she’s asking me;
“But I gotta know, is it better than Up The Bracket?”
And the answer, a cop-out, and she’s in there fore I get it out the
yap. “And don’t just say it’s different.”
But what more can a man say, tell me, it’s a different beast
entirely, one that, first time you approach it, just wants to
bubble and hiss over in the corner, the sheets clinging to every
limb, the eyes twitchin in the sockets. A veil a impenetrable
darkness, and then look, look see, the closer you get, the more
pronounced the joy in the beast’s cheekbones becomes.
It’s right there in Killamangiro, in fact, re-recorded since it was
released as a single, wasn’t gonna be on the record, apparently,
till Mick Jones got all excited around the sneaky-bastard-gland an
taped a rehearsal, unbeknownst to the band.
So the piercingly naked “On the off-chance that you’re listening to
the radio, I thought you might like to know you broke my heart”
from that earlier top-10 scaling version, it becomes a half-uttered
sorta-lyric;
“On the off chance that you’re listenin…
Thought you might like to know…
La la la la”
No sense worryin about keeping the bitterness and the hurt in check
when the studio’s trembling with the weight of the glee on display.
And the night alive wi bust yap smiles.
But it has to happen;
The record comin to an end sometimes around 6 in the AM, god knows
how many repeat spins, god knows how many choruses scrawled cross
the shit-house walls a the brain.
Soon enough, dawn-light crossin the notebook.
A quick text message, something long the lines of “Albion. Now when
I think about it, I saw it for a second when you scribbled cross
these pages a couple nights ago.”
The lights off, the headphones on, Shaking And Withdrawn Megamix,
something to mingle with the sleepers in the corners a the psyche.
Sleep, with its wedding-veil whispers draped round a fella, feelin
the kinda safety he felt for a moment in the arms of a girl stood
outside Auntie Annie’s on a rain-lashed November night, yes.
And Pete, what’s he singing?
“True hearts and minds and melodies,
They’re said to cure all known maladies,
So sing along…”
And singing along, yes. Sing, for fucks sakes! Fuck the sleep, I
say, “Time enough for sleepin when we’re dead” like The Magnetic
Fields announced, and the curtains open anew, the sun, how you been
you beautiful old fucker, how bout you let me take your hand for
this dance?
Careful, I’m allergic to scalding.
“Are you from round here?
How do you do?
I’d like to talk about that…”
Thanks folks.
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