The Wind Chimes Of Jermyns Road

On empty windy nights...
I walk under the burning honey street lamps of Jermyns Road
I can hear wind chimes...
The only competing sound is the gentle howl
I can hear every single light, bright, crystal vibration, every chime,
that forms a blanket of soft fingers that takes me somewhere.
I don't know where, but it takes me.
It takes me there.

When you return

13.10.2012 (edited/polished today)

When you return
I want to tell you how I've missed you
I want to tell you I feel you're the only one I can talk to here
I want to tell you that I miss your playfulness
and your moments of depth
I want to tell you how I've been longing for you to return
I want to tell you that I want to cheer you up and keep you warm
I want to tell you so many things

Yet...

When you return
I'll flash you a smile

man to man (without Dean Learner)

but we have to also realise

we are dumb and weak

and we assign things to people

and build them up to be things they are not

just explore

I wish I told him to fuck off

Foam in my hair. It makes me skin itch, all the warnings on the screen, makes me think even they know the foam will melt me. Mercy is so empty these days, competition down and up the road. I wash my hair, "No spray, no pussy" the toilet attendant sings, one of the many rhymes I have heard in club toilets over the year, Birmingham Gatecrasher was the first place I heard them.

"How about this? No clean fingers, no niggers" some dickhead says to the attendant. It doesn't register to me what has been said until the second time he says it. Vacuum in me, vacuum in me. I turn around and look at him, fat face on top of round white polo top. I carry on washing as he leaves. Some other dick moans about the price of hair wax and tries to get it for 50p. He leaves, I turn to the attendant and ask if he's alright, he nods. His eyes tell me he's used to this. Why didn't I just turn around and tell him to fuck off. I wish I told him to fuck off.

It's been an emotional day, week, yes. Year, two years. Yes.

I dance. I wish I told him to fuck off.
I smile at my friends. I wish I told him to fuck off.
I kick foam about. I wish I told him to fuck off.
I leave. I wish I told him to fuck off.

I wish I told him to fuck off.I wish I told him to fuck off.
I wish I told him to fuck off.I wish I told him to fuck off.

If my memory fails me, will I be failing you?
If the past of; chats on swings and jokes in front of the TV fades, what do I have?

Social Gambit

Did my greeting not warrant a response,
Am I not loved, am I not respected,
I feel my face turn into hot air,
Not seen, just there.

Just there, walking through a crowd,
We have spoken many times,
It would be rude for me to ignore you,
"Hello" "How are you?" "Hi"

Maybe I would ignore myself too,
Maybe I am a grumpy weak pile of over-analytic bones.
Maybe I am too eager to avoid the inevitable loneliness.
Maybe I just didn't say hello loud enough.

It's strange how you forget, things weren't always like this.

A friend from my first semester, who had removed himself from communication, un-removed himself. I was looking through his photos, and remembered the fun times but also my first opinions of many people.
And another friend who got on with the American, I am now friendly with his flat and it feels like it has always been that way, but I use to feel very awkward there, until about a few weeks really.
It's surreal and sad how things feel like they change so quick.