I woke up and I was 80, I was lying in bed with my wife of 40 years who I was bored with at 3 years and stayed with, because after so many unrequited loves with beautiful people, I decided it was time to stick. Stick like glue to someone placid and tidy. Who was so beaten down by life, so depressed that they stopped caring. They didn’t complain when I poured toast crumbs into the cutlery drawer every morning when I made breakfast. Who didn’t mind that I squandered every penny I ever earned.
I just decided on the simple life one day because I concluded that I’d never be happy. Much more poetic than jumping off a high building to make some type of statement about consumerism.
Spraying myself all over the car park of The Marshes over an anarchist symbol mutated by a giant converted crucifix. I took it one day that putting people on pedestals never got me anywhere and I should be with someone who after I see a horror film I expect to be under my bed. Hopefully sorting out the discarded first draft poetry and the dirty socks. Neatly piling everything into labelled folders and colour coordinated drawers.
Maybe as I woke up again because as the English teachers do hate, the above paragraph was a dream within a dream. An inception. It made enough money didn’t it?
Maybe (I will begin again) I will wake up in a shit flat littered in my own filthy, starving artist hellhole, dirty clothes, discarded first draft poetry, pizza boxes and mouldy cups. Realise that I can be happy, if I just tried enough, If I didn’t think the way I do. If I accepted the fact I could never father a child, never feel a real cock inside a girl instead of a rubber one I got in Ann Summers, directed happily by a sales assistant with an ass as nice as Jennifer Aniston’s face, never be able to look in the mirror and see the way I’m meant to be, not tits or scars where tits used to be. Just be delighted with everything, a shiny happy vacuous rabbit. In a sea of rabbits in a circular part of Ann Summers. Hidden in the back like a good little boy.
You know what? These are the facts.
I’m always going to be sad about something. I’m never going to be happy about everything. Its going to be AI and not Pinocchio. Its going to questions and not acceptance. I’m going to settle one day or I’m going to die. Or I’m going to settle and be a vampire and become immortal or be an immortal Haley Joel Osment robot. Things are sometimes too good to be true and you know what? The truth in me is more evident than the truth in you because I’m sure you pretend to be interested and I’m sure I’m happy to take you being the pretender.
Lets bake a cake together and fill it full of rainbows and be fucking shiny for once.
Chances are for losers and sometimes you don’t even get one
Swipe the children from their beds
When you come tonight
And take refuge in my room
In the dead hour
Find the tomb wrapped up in silks
Gartered to the bedpost
And use it wisely
To lead you back home