This is something I wrote after a dream. Some of these words are already music. The one feeds into the other. And it really is cathartic releasing emotions, mixing them around until the words fit. Makes one feel lighter somehow. And no, I am not as… unhappy as the music or words suggest (I think!) Haha. Anyhoo, read if you like.
Bad Whiskey Thoughts
Three in the morning thoughts. I can’t sleep thoughts. Drunk on whiskey thoughts. Things I should not be thinking thoughts. Roses made of stone thoughts. Unnecessary, outdated thoughts. And still, no matter where you go…there they are…
I hate those kinds of thoughts. They are the gushing, confess everything under the wrong circumstances kinda thoughts. The just when you give up and feel better about your life, these ‘I know it’s bad whiskey but I still want some poison on my tongue’ thoughts rock up. Like on a Saturday night when you are bored and trying to cling to the words in book, your knuckles the color of dried bone but you just can’t keep still.
Hey, says the bad whiskey thoughts….wanna go to a club? You know you shouldn’t….but you do. And you end up home with some man, always younger, whose name you plan on forgetting. But you know the importance of playing the game, so you use his name all the time while touching his hands and lying kinda thoughts.
Most days I leave those thoughts alone. I see you dammit and you can’t disarm me anymore! Don’t you know I found the cure, my cure for you and hid it under the piano chair, under the green cloth that warm the keys, in the ink of every pen I compose music with? Go away, you have been banished and hidden between flame and snow.
I wonder about those thoughts that watch me from my bookshelf. Do I use them to keep safe? Are you, the white, talentless boy in search of redemption with a guitar, while the black girl sings her soul out around a fire thoughts, a self defense mechanism? Nothing other than another kind of shield, a dodgy man who fingers a cigarette knowingly, knowing I will demand it after enough time has passed kinda thoughts?
Or are you an open field where landmines lurk? Kaboom! Blood trapped between the leaves of flowers as a mother mourns, while politicians make meaningful speeches but fuck around every chance they get and the journalist snorts anything lined up on a hard surface as the deadline for the horrid landmine story looms. Are you that kinda thought?
I am tired, is the only true thought left. Of music filled with barbed wire, words that twist as I sing and swallow them. Of bloody cracks on chord progressions, blades on string and words where silence should be. Tired of not sleeping as bad whiskey thoughts grab me by the hair and force remembrance. And still the hunger follows, they whisper. And still the hunger follows they laugh.