THE END.

Une orange sur la table
Ta robe sur le tapis
Et toi dans mon lit
Doux présent du présent
Fraîcheur de la nuit
Chaleur de ma vie.

An orange on the table
Your dress on the rug
And you in my bed
Sweet gift of now
Crisp cool of night
Passion fire of my life

3/3

I look into her green eyes and wonder how someone so familliar can be so foreign to me.
I can see the cigarette burns on her clothes. The cuts on her legs.
She's paler than normal. I know she's tired, and I know she feels the strain.
She tells me this often.
Right now we are at two different stations.
I'm standing on platform at Angel, heading north-bound.
She's slouching against the barriers at Crossharbour in ripped tights, smoking a joint.
Just waiting; her train came off the rails.
I can see passion in her eyes, but its not for the good things.
It's for poisons and toxins; flesh and substance.
The night to my day; she's full of sex drugs rock and roll.
I've tried over and over to make her see what I see, but some feelings can't be harnessed for the better.
I want her to be more like me, I know life would become more simple then.
Part of me wishes I didnt know her.
Part of me wishes it was just me, alone.
But we come as a pair and we co-exist. This will always be set in stone.
From day one we battled with eachother, who was older.
Who was stronger, who was the more honest.
Who is more genuine?
I stand here looking at her, with the scars on my arms from the mistakes she has made.
I'm not to blame, but it's my fault. She's my fault.
Still, I will take it out on me, I always will.
Our blood and pain will always be shared.
It's hard to forget, but I try.
Each time I see this.
I think this is the last time, the sunset to sunrise, but I'm never right.
This is my goodbye.
I see her; a partially broken being; roughed up, incomplete, lost and confused.
Each time I wonder if things will ever change.
I wonder if they will get easier.
I wonder when it will stop being me and her, and will just become us.
Perhaps it will become either/or.
Each time I see her, I pity her.
Then I shut my eyes. Breathe in, tell myself that this is me.




















Then I walk away from the mirror.

2/3

Beautiful people.
Foreign faces.
Strange & distant familiar streets.
Feeling my age.
Talking about Roman roads and Duchamp.
Traffic.
Singing to the car radio.
Eating my way through the cultures.
Rain, refugees, books and spiders.
21st March 2009.

1/3

"When I look at the number of paintings I have painted, I sometimes wonder what I shall do with them. It would be a shame to burn them, there are over 10 years of work in them. But they are as useless as a church. They serve no purpose whatsoever."

Aleksandr Rodchenko 1927

I think I pass judgement too easily.
I think my advice is somewhat biased?
Is that the word I'm looking for?
Biased, wrong, un-educated.
Yes, un-educated.
I've been thinking lately, has all the advice I've ever given been wrong?
Maybe not all, but some.
If one day I go against the advice I've given, am I a hypocrite?
When something happens to you, I guess you'd realise how easy it is to do that thing with good intentions, or no intentions.
I sit there, with friends or strangers, giving out life lessons that I probably won't pay attention to one day.
Looking back on the advice given, "stay away from him" "you can do better" "don't stick around for that", have I listened to myself?
No.
When I have talked to people and thought, "how could you do that" "what were you thinking?", Now I know.
Looking back I understand. It's not easy, sometimes it's accidental.
Sometimes it's out of your hands.
Sometimes you can't help the hurt.
Sometimes the secrecy is too much.
Sometimes, just sometimes, you wish there were people out there who understood.
And I guess you'll find them in the places you least expect, they are the people you have given advice to.
They will possibly think less of you, or perhaps they will feel some form of release of relief.
You finally know how they felt. They aren't alone. You're not alone.

If you asked a murderer how it felt to kill, asked them to answer honestly, would they say it was easier than they expected?
How can we judge them when we ourselves have never killed.
Perhaps they once sat and thought to themselves, "I'd never do such a thing" "What could possess them?".
Now they know, and now, do they think differently?

I think differently after this.

all of my eggs are in one basket

sitting cold; looking at the irony

bottles bottles bottles and regret

I'm spoilt for choice
a right foot with cuts and a blanket with holes

sometimes people need a night off

a break from self-regulation
it was my christmas party

it was my fishing trip

a pure pecking party
it was the wine in my grape juice
and I'm sorry.
the two ideals are too hard to find
I don't think there's a balance anymore
amber stones and orchid lips
snakes, apples, and knowledge
chalk and cheese
cold fingers and two cold noses

underpasses and over bridges
if things were different.
if things were easy.
if things were you.