Three Act

if it doesn't come bursting out of you in spite of everything,  don't do it.  unless it comes unasked out of your heart  and your mind  and your mouth  and your gut,  don't do it. 

if you have to sit for hours staring at your computer screen or hunched over your typewriter searching for words,  don't do it. 

if you're doing it for money or fame,  don't do it. 

if you're doing it because you want women in your bed,  don't do it.

if you have to sit there and rewrite it again and again,  don't do it. 

if it's hard work just thinking about doing it, don't do it. 

if you're trying to write like somebody else, forget about it. 

if you have to wait for it to roar out of you,  then wait patiently. 

if it never does roar out of you,  do something else. 

if you first have to read it to your wife or your girlfriend or your boyfriend or your parents or to anybody at all,  you're not ready. 

don't be like so many writers,  don't be like so many thousands of people who call themselves writers, don't be dull and boring and pretentious,  don't be consumed with self- love. 

the libraries of the world have yawned themselves to sleep over your kind. 

don't add to that.  don't do it. 

unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket, unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder,  don't do it. 

unless the sun inside you is burning your gut, don't do it. 

when it is truly time,  and if you have been chosen,  it will do it by itself and it will keep on doing it until you die or it dies in you. 

there is no other way. 

Sunlight in your eyes | driving over stateside | left the smoke behind us | could we be together | in another world?

There exists a doomsday theory that suggests our universe could be wiped out by a new Big Bang that expands from the centre of the universe to wipe all life out creating a universe within that big bang.

Interesting theory.

Perhaps this has happened millions of times before with our own Big Bang wiping out all life in a universe of its own. Perhaps our universe looks and acts the way it does because of the universes before it.

Millions of slow releasing explosions that recycle matter into new life; the matter I am made up of, the consciousness I have all could have belonged to some ancient form of life - I don't believe this but it's an interesting thought nonetheless.

So what sort of influence will our universe imprint on the next one? Like a father and a son do not share a consciousness, so too will our universe not share an existence, but a father does imprint something on a son -

Who will write my story | get the picture, they get glory | who looks after my story | all the guys and the signore | telling another false story

You're only as young as the last time you changed your mind.

Oh and I take | take it in vain | so I fake | fake it again

So I think I have | to let you go | and so | won't let you go | and I | I'm so...

It's not about retro or modern, it's about this note or that note, which sounds better?

No one will admit it but with a reflection in the mirror they confess.

This city is built on games, I call them games because I don't know what else to call it. There's the, "We simply must do something...next week." These interactions are about as insubstantial as a retweet is redundant (someone said it, now define repetition)

I know this guy, we go way back but hardly know each other; everytime I see him I impart what I consider to be encouragement. He has talent but he also has addiction and unfortunately the one beat the hell out of the other - his talent today is a pale reflection of what he once was but at least it's more attractive than he has become; transparent teeth and gaunt physique. I digress; while my intermittent encouragement may present itself when I'm too drunk to hole up, I'm sober enough to see him scoff out the side of his ice-toothed mouth.   "You were going somewhere bruv and you still can."  "Fuck off."

The retort is my intuition alone but I continually try give what I can; a smile is free and a kind word profit. I believe it to be entirely genuine, I make it my motto but sometimes even I cannot believe myself...perhaps he senses this.

This is a card in my hand - this poker game of a city. Some of us are playing Texas Hold 'Em and she is playing 'Go Fish;' I occasionally fish but nothing has come up yet; although I have folded a loaded hand twice. Again, I'm genuine and I try my best to care, to listen, to be available but I'm not playing her game. Do I even believe that?

But then this is how it's played here; there are kings, queens, jackasses and jokers but all I can muster for myself is a nine - that still puts me at the beginning of a royal flush - what the hell does that mean? Maybe I don't even know but it's making sense as I vomit onto this page, post, whatever.

Where I live the tables are empty, the pretence non-existent and it's all the more boring for it. No one wants to play games that aren't fun but some aspects of this shallow urban melee, as deplorable as they appear on paper, are fun in practice (in that challenging, perplexing, what the hell am I doing kind of way).

To the talent-possessed hack, the high-stakes 'Go Fish' player and to myself, the addled paradox weary of games but aching to bet, I say carry on as if saying it is dressed up in anything other than hopelessness; the dealer deals and you play or you don't but purgatory is very boring.

So boring.

Say that you'll always remind me | 'cause I can't decide | if you are my love | I know I can't always be home | but I never left | don't think like that

This is the end | beautiful friend This is the end | my only friend, the end Of our elaborate plans | the end Of everything that stands | the end No safety or surprise | the end

I'll never look into your eyes | again Can you picture what will be So limitless and free Desperately in need | of some stranger's hand In a desperate land | Lost in a Roman wilderness of pain

And all the children are insane All the children are insane Waiting for the summer rain | yeah

There's danger on the edge of town Ride the King's highway, baby Weird scenes inside the gold mine Ride the highway west, baby Ride the snake | ride the snake To the lake | the ancient lake, baby The snake is long | seven miles Ride the snake | he's old | and his skin is cold

The west is the best | the west is the best Get here, and we'll do the rest The blue bus is callin' us | The blue bus is callin' us Driver, where you taken' us

The killer awoke before dawn, he put his boots on. He took a face from the ancient gallery. And he walked on down the hall. He went into the room where his sister lived, and then he paid a visit to his brother, and then he. He walked on down the hall, and. And he came to a door and he looked inside. Father? Yes son. I want to kill you. Mother | I want to | *screams*

C'mon baby | No "take a chance with us" C'mon baby | take a chance with us C'mon baby | take a chance with us And meet me at the back of the blue bus Doin' a blue rock | on a blue bus Doin' a blue rock C'mon, yeah

This is the end | beautiful friend This is the end  | my only friend, the end It hurts to set you free | but you'll never follow me The end of laughter and soft lies The end of nights we tried to die

Oceans I will see I hold alone again | I accept my faith sacred only to me | we dreamed of faith | I accept my faith | will only offer to you

If he forgets you | he forgets you for good | if you wanna feel | you better start searching some more | because it was a happy time | now it’s winter time | and you’re cold