Late bloomer

You’re lucky that you never had to deal with the Tokio Hotel mania then

the libertines are the band playing on as the ship goes down, they’re the scattering of glitter stuck to the grimy club floor, the dead-skin-dust that hangs in the sunlight, blinding bright. the libertines are songs in the shape of hearts and words in the shape of knives. they’re the friend that you’ll meet again and again and the endlessness of a three minute song. greasy chips in newspaper, ragged bunting, 2017 and everything’s off the ration. lullabies that coil up your spine and settle in the folds of your brain. songs for screaming and loving and dying. the libertines are concrete slabs smashed into crazy-paving, the dandelion lawn round the back of the off-license, the wind that sweeps litter from the streets, and the back room fag smoke smog that swirls with ghosts and whispers and hidden kisses.

ugh