Sunday

We didn’t get the best books (And New York… was like that… mirrors, upside down, lines, the kids, nothing to imagine but what you see what a life, and New York was like that. Not like London) no way because the cunts wouldn’t dare try, go on stay up in Hammersmith you stinkin outsider, that’s your London. And it’s dull isn’t it I’d rather die than be up there. And all the stinkin stupid kids did the same thing, went to the same places, picked up the politics, it had made me sick, this isn’t the place for outsiders as they know it, it’s for them as we know it and have known it, since before. The word Hackney should have sent a shiver right down your spine and you could have lived in the marshes, watched the water steaming, woken up off your bed, not seen a single person, gone to the cafe, walked over the little bridge, round the corner, ignored everybody, stomped on idealism and those kids arseholes careerist pieces of shit who didn’t do it right who tied a knot in your stomach and it stayed wrenched as you cried around this bleak shithole, your whole aspiration echoing off the time of day and the LONDON, you crying, as empty as the sound of somebody on the other end of your mobile phone, where are you I’m in LONDON WALKING ROUND BY MYSELF. But the early morning unforgettable, but again and again, you needn’t ever stop talking about this youth, and even held the hand of a girl as you did it, fine, whatever exacerbated your melancholy and nostalgia you were born with it you believed then, in your trembling little baby’s fist, change your accent don’t you dare hold onto your difference, remember it all fifteen years ago, and laugh don’t forget to laugh but not because it’s funny, walk the streets, take everything for granted, the shit etc. don’t believe in change never did, the word hackney sends a shiver down my spine and Roman road and the Victoria park up there, my dirty bicycle, my dreams, they don’t belong to history as they knew it or ever conceived of it big titted arseholes, journalists fuckers, but the fog and the morning and early onset of melancholy, sure you age but we wouldn’t notice it, or ever make anything of it to you, dinner and alcohol, even love, I’m not against it. Ghosts mutters music the shit. The shit the accent the perfect shoes the kids exactly like you that you never met, thank god, they minded their own business even if you were never into the same music fuck it it was your kind of thing too, and if I had em I’d vouch a million pounds to say they were just like me though we never met and they’ve got pride but you doubt it good write the books about something else you’ve got no idea about this Africa, we never wanted to be exceptional in their eyes, just the old cobbled fucking gangways, the fog, or whatever you call it steaming off the canals.

-LPM