Seagulls and buggies - that's what it feels like. Gliding into dream. Everything slides, more trombone that garbage chute, into place. The lyrics have been hammered like rock on steel, put through a scrapyard crusher, ripped to pieces and jumped on and still something remains, because it's true and hits some spot or other. Don't ask me whose or which one. But it does. I'm happy because it now exists. Will it feed me? I don't know. I'm beginning to wonder. No silhouette on the horizon. No pigeon has come from the publisher who has seen the first drafts. Here is the first of three parts. Be nice. Don't crumple the paper. No coffee rings.
I left the boy of nineteen years
Melting the tender chains with my own acid tears
Walked past the women buying bread and making tea
Brushing crumbs from their mouths and babies from their knee
Whether, Baby, you stay or leave
You’re better by yourself
If you find somewhere to breathe
Don’t tell nobody else
I’m a lookalike companion
I’m a trick of time and space
I’m a double of your best friend
I’m a copy of my face
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