@uspic¡ous Fish¿!
Delirious With Weird

Tuesday, May 27, 2003  
And I'm walking down the steps that are made of slate, and they're wet (they don't even exist, nor does this park, I know that and still I wanna believe it's real); down the steps to the river, across the iron bridge, back down the road that doesn't exist but is where you live, and you're there as is your sister and namesake...

"I wanna hold your haaaaaaaaaaaaand, I wanna hold your haaaand..." and I did, once. What are you doing now, baby? Are you eating, baby? Are you drinking Asti? Are you fucking two in one day baby and getting a thrill from that? Are you the ass in the glass? Is Ray dead yet baby? His heart can't hold out much longer; all that weight to carry.

Listen to me! Marx! Listen listen listen it's this and this and this and I don't know who I am anymore; Marx, and everyone else ran away scared. I stuck it baby. I came back here and The Beatles baby.

Back up the hill, I've gotta keep walking waking walking, back down the steps and across the bridge and did you put your heads together baby, heads together in the park baby? It's 4.10am, it's 5am, it's 6am, it's 7am, it's wake up with money. It's five years next November baby. It's a shit Christmas baby, a shit Christmas with Miles and a bottle of claret sitting alone at 6pm and are you with them now baby? With your acting buddies? Good for you. Saskia's dead. Did you know her? Arranged her memorial on the day America died. I drank a lot that night baby; I drank a lot with you and with your friend.

The doors of perception are wide open; I could never open my doors enough baby; never enough for you. Open up the doors and let Robert Zimmerman in. Sorry baby, I can't. You know why? I ain't got no doors baby. I ain't got no doors. I know you too well; there's no mystery. It can't work. I can eat ice cream with.

"Money can't buy me love..." Money can't buy me money. The internet knows I'm guilty, for fuck's sake; it's trying to fuck me up.

I'd put my records down if it landed on my doorstep. I'd pick up my torch again.

Geldoff's going back. Bono's banging his fist on a table. Are you awake baby? London calling. It's four and a half years ago, 7 years ago, 19 years ago. November 1998. A firework in my neck and I died. Was I not mysterious enough baby? The only mystery is that anyone ever thought I had any content. Who do you see if you... in your dreams.

Pachelbel and theft. I jumped a wall and it fell out of my pocket; did you not see me running? Did you not think... no. Why would you baby? You want spirits. I ain't got no soul. I ain't got no nothing.

there is no sunken treasure
rumoured to be
wrapped inside my ribs
in a sea
black with ink

I ain't got no doors, baby. Are you watching Star Wars baby? Are you smoking a pipe baby? Are you looking for doors? Ways out? No ways out, no ways in. Nothing to be in. Listen to me baby. Stage and screen.

5/27/2003 07:14:00 am


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Nick Southall is Contributing Editor at Stylus Magazine and occasionally writes for various other places on and offline. You can contact him by emailing auspiciousfishNO@SPAMgmail.com

All material © Nick Southall, 2003/2004/2005