Short Story: 'cause I Just Looked Inside…

Short Story: 'cause I Just Looked Inside My Head

From here - you can almost see the sea. Look at the near distance, at the ridge of land, pond green, still when the light fading daubs shadows less defined than its dawn predecessor, and, imagine the water brimmed there, on the other side. Close eyes and stop thinking. Open them and try and recall what it was you were thinking about. Hear words in your head and turn west and see the land unfettered. No breaks built of stone, only fields divided by hedges and more field beyond.

Jenny said we were going out - to the Hundred Club. Pierced-flesh girls, heads dyed many colours smoking cigarettes leant against walls spitting out the last of their youth. Bottles in flight. Beer and bravado. Anarchy for sale. The time now is to rent only. In twenty five years time it's all for free - until it runs out. Damn, my heads spinning. I don't want to trade on this memory and cheapen it but I know I will one day. Sorry Joe.

I'll come upon you while you sleep and drown you in a kiss so deep. Sleep till you die, paralysed by convention. It is better to have loved a lyric...infected by you with lust. This is the sweetest hate you will ever know.

What I am to you - is not what you mean to me. Weak from anger and pain. Sorry this and sorry that. I should not invade that little part of your mind that is free of me. I should not prostrate myself and expect the warmth of your hand. I am guilty as always, even when I did not hurt you. Sorry this and bugger that.

They say the immigrants steal the hubcaps, of respected gentlemen - they say it will be wine and roses, when England is for Englishmen again. Red white and blue billowing like a giant's ugly sail sagging, dragging Dr. Marten's shaven-headed Army down the street. 1978 would have made Orwell weep. Middle-England turns a blind-eye, turns to the Home and Garden supplement of the Daily Mail. Enough dole scrounging stories for one day - terrible, terrible, what have things come to? Whad'ya reckon, Joe?

Where do you go to my lovely, when you're alone in your bed - what are the thoughts that surround you, I want to look inside your head - oh yes I do... Summer never ended in those days did it, so how come there was Christmas - Ha-Ha! Dreamy young girls in tie-dyes. The lovely scented Miss with blonde tresses that made you feel funny inside like Diana Rigg did in black leathers, but not the same really - more intimate, like one day she would be yours, one day when you were all grown. French accents, perfumed sub-titled films in black and white, always night, always red wine spilt on a scarred table, rain on cobbled back streets - blink and you miss a white satin blouse unbuttoned. Back street brothels. Chic. Not chic. Gauloise pulled by mouth from a packet - a flame bites into one in a cafe doorway. Someone hurries across the cobbles, stumbles. No movie soundtrack for sale.

The crickets are chirping, the water is high - there's a soft cotton dress, on the line hanging dry. Intoxication for sublimation of the seedy soul - sing for me Joan - make it all better before I hit the bottom of this bottle from Lynchburg, Tennessee. Preacher man is abusing his power down in Pensacola. Drift on a current far from a dusty road.

Ah, my James, they didn't have to do this. With famine death comes inevitably. The King's shilling shatters all peace - bayonets crack bones - so cold and so much rain how could anyone survive?

Credits:

From here - you can almost see the sea -From here you can almost see the sea-David Gray

Jenny said we were going out - to the Hundred Club -Deny - The Clash

I'll come upon you while you sleep and drown you in a kiss so deep -Poison Apples (Hallelujah) - Joan Osborne

What I am to you - is not what you mean to me-Volcano - Damien Rice & Lisa Hannigan

They say the immigrants steal the hubcaps, of respected gentlemen - they say it will be wine and roses, when England is for Englishmen again -Something About England - The Clash

Where do you go to my lovely, when you're alone in your bed - what are the thoughts that surround you, I want to look inside your head - oh yes I do... Where do you go to my lovely - Peter Sarstedt

The crickets are chirping, the water is high - there's a soft cotton dress, on the line, hanging dry -Man in the Long Black Coat-Joan Osborne (written by Bob Dylan)

Ah, my James, they didn't have to do this -The Storm - Big Country