Two trod and one so pestering at the falter of older other in the old world. Giros and on the rob, stealing the light from the dawn and sweet lasting embraces besides the late night river Thames. Mountain ranges of paperback books, heart shaped renditions of ‘you’re my waterloo’ and ‘france’.
First time I seen him cry: ‘tears and tears in his proud fathers coat’ ‘Death on the stairs’. Yes, I wrote ‘how can we..’ yes older sings it so magnificently. Now he’s stuck brogues nailed to conveyer belt and he’s screaming to come away: but the infastructure is there all behind and for him, appreciative, egging.
Fat lines of coke courtesy of Rough Trade, or a Strokes guitarist, backstage passes and torments in the night.
Bored, plain kids shyly approach us. wow oh scramble scramble.
No, mum, I’m fine. Aaah. The nurse beckons me closer, she has watched me laughing crying, singing all day..
sweet old Irish accent:
‘You’re no addict young man, they’ll mollycoddle you to death yet. Jesus you come away til I marry you. Be careful, look out now. There’s a hallful of bastards out there your friends. Just watch it now. Sing your little heart bare’

Carl. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, so truly, and I love you and I’m here.