There is a light and it never goes out. Like the kitchen roll boats I kept because they reminded me of him. The fisherman, druggy, bad-boy who begat this heavy heap of hippy who stands before you. The man with the far-away stare and the rum-warm voice. Could he be anymore mine than he is right now?
A year my dear, is the long and short of it. Feeling through time is frightful but fearing the future is far worse. Floating: because all this time later, I still can’t get a fucking grip. Unhinged and I’m hideous in my heart. And wasn’t I always the sounds of the wickedness, the coolest woman to ever walk the earth? Or was it just a daydream dreamt too many days in a row? The funny-haha of it is that there’s a rainbow somewhere bursting beneath the dark of this daughter, I swear there is. I just don’t know how to show it off. Unless I’m singing, padding bare foot around my kitchen with the fizzy orangina sun spilling in, quenching my thirst while the pans bubble over and the smells spill around the estate.
My mind fairytales all the fuckery: weaving it into something sparkly dark and beautiful. Something to drape across my shoulders. Something to hand down to the mish-mash of orphan children I hope to inherit from whores too whorish to home-make. And the way I see it, Fonzie the cat didn’t die, he went to Bombay with Joss. Dylan’s somewhere under the milk of the prettiest wood, hooning around like a happy phantom, ‘chasing the nuns out in the yard’. And Captain Yiannis mans the beautiful pea-green boat expertly sailing the soak of the kitchen roll river towards a much greater ocean. A song in his heart and a spliff in his lips.
As for the evangelist who once lay on my ceiling looking down my top…I thank my stars above that he still has breath in his lungs and adventure in his soul. If not a little bitter from the long taste of me, but I hope better for the full buttering I bestowed on his soul.
Looking at it this way, through these cola-cube eyes, line by line I re-write and clean-wipe it the way I want it. And when the big ‘the end’ comes, the fairy-tale would have left a serious smile and a swoon that carries like the wind whips in the corners of your cardigan cosy like cotton on your curling bed-toes. The kissing goodnight of the corpses I can’t cope with: making a carnival of cadavers like the Portuguese parading through the plaza in the dead of night dressed in death and disaster, dancing away their cares like Fraggles. And if you’re going to give grief a gateway, this is the way it should be done.