A tender disease is all it is. We've carried it from dublin to london and now to manhattan where the tree-lined streets pour worn out dreams from every criss-cross fire-exit.I'm still learning I am young enough to fix it all or to suppress it enough not to care. Mourn the memories later, laugh now alligator, do you still sing that song to yourself from your old ashen grave, Phoenix Heart? What is it in you that refuses to be still? Don't you know now that love is just an insecurity? Maybe you called it God or maybe you called it Vodka or maybe it dripped from the tip of your needle, but it's the same thing really.So hush now, the damage's been done to all of us, love, though if it's all the same, listen how my own one sings on, plaintive dischord.
Later now, standing on the pavement outside the Chelsea Hotel (another pilgrimage, what a cliche!) and I do remember you well, how you stumbled through the kitchen and your cigarette smoke clung to my hair and the velvet coat I lost, and I whispered your name to the mirror, to the sky, to the river where a trail of white feathers swam past and I promised the world it was angels' heavenly debris. Prayer and love, no difference really. Prayer, grief, love, death, sex - little rituals.
I remember the next coward well too, how I thought I might have replaced you and somewhere (from soil or ash, I neither know nor care) you laughed and laughed, winking at us. Just crack open another beer and wait babe, I'll catch you on the other side. (Oh, even for him, I cried for months.) And the next strange stir? Did it come from nowhere? Oh, tender ugliness, isn't it funny how it goes, it glows, how something persists, on and on. You know, he blocked you out completely, I thought I was healing when he threw in a light so bright it filled all of the cracks and I realised how blind we'd all been all this time. I did care and love and pray to him and for him, more than any whispered half-name, more than any still reflection or talismanic angel feather. Did I compromise with a tightness? A taut string, stretching and stretching. I no longer break, but I do bend.
In the afternoon light pouring out over Brooklyn (why here, why now, do you fit yourself in?) I laugh at the old dirt still in my hands. I wonder if anyone else grinds salt onto their chocolate, lol. I can keep running away if I like, but I'd still have to carry myself around with me.