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h o wt ol o s ey o u r s e l fc o m p l e t e l y

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//

l o s ey o u r s e l f s o y o u m i g h tf i n ds o m eo n e e l s e

part oneI. the wind in the willowsII. telling tales of toilet wallsIII. a messageIV. I and IIV. morning mirror blues

part twoVI. letVII. hopping and hopingVIII. a meetingIX. drinking wine

part threeX. the kids in berlinXI. labourday mayday maydayXII. today tomorrow and the return of the bigger pictureXIII. we stand

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

p a r t o n e - l o n d o n *

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

w eh i tt h et o w nb u tt h e t o w n h i t b a c k

/the wind in the willows/

The wind in the willows whistles throughthe bus-stops, lifeless and vacant, and throughthe nightclubs and the adjacent alleys,the sick-filled cracks and valleys in the pavement,the bodies in the corners, some are the lovers -the future husbands, the wives, the others arethe drunkards, knowing the hours betweenthe sunrise and opening time are the hardest,the largest amongst us, they fallthe fastest, dribbling down their chins,the martyrs to the pint glass.

/telling tales of toilet walls/

“Boys cock wanted!”That was the wisdomimparted on those toilet walls.

Accompanied by the numberof some shamelessanonymous other. The tension in your faceas you held the phonewaiting:

For the breakingof the dialling tonewaiting:

For the sound ofsome young studor someone’s lonely mother, waiting:

The tension in your eyesas the receiver was liftedand a ten-inch-voice answered.

/a message from the top deck/

On the night bus, eveningturns to morning,the city grows sober- realises its errors

and promptly hides its face,to save itselffrom the taunting, the teasing.The ego’s sure to take a bruising.

/I and II/

we know this

I

The nights are measured inhow much we can’t remember

and the daysinhow much our friends forgave us.

II

The evening winds down climbs down falls down face down.

/morning mirror blues/

we hit the townbut the town hit backit sent us sprawlingleft is crawlingthrough the dawningsun

look at yerself son

yer broken noseopened like an envelopeand yer jeans snippedand yer heart pippedat the post whippedfrom yer like thatspartan misformednewly born

look at yerself son

yer eyes closedand yer skin bruisedblue and blackin factwe can hardlysee yer underthat shell of welllanded five fingeredhell

look at yerself son

yer own father'dhardly know yerand yer mother'dwipe yer cleanspit and polishtill yer gleaming cheekswere allowed to walkthe streets again

look at yerself son

and know yerself son

throw yerself intoa cold shower costhats the best curefor yer addictiona fixationfor a fictionthat only a pintwould lend yer

look at yerself son

change yerself son

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

p a r t t w o - b u d a p e s t *

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

at a l eo fh a l ft h ec i t y

/let/

let me run out into the bleeding rain those clouds weeping away the time let me stand handsoutstretched the fibres pulled tight along their span let my teeth throw themselves wide and my eyes clampthemselvesshut and shutthemselvestight and let my feet dance til theyre black with mud and my anklesunshackled and freckled with that clinging grass and let my fists unwind themselves and open like timelapsed plants my palms catching the rhinestoneraindrops falling from the sky my eyes now wide with the rhapsodiesinblue of unashamedyouth and let me make a friend of fear and stand alone in this torrential field the smiles running down my spine and let my mind picturethisindoubletime filmed and focused and alive and dont let this slip away and let this remain in memory or in type or in photography and let me stand with you onthishill onthismound of forgotten mouths their lore lost and buried with their bones beneathourfeet and between our teeth let us catch ourbeatinghearts ourracinghearts and let me markourposition on a map and markourambitions and markourwords we will make them stand apart from their works of fiction bitches to all their prepossessions and a slave to their preconceptions let me forget them whollyandfully and losemyselfcompletely and let me start again and restart my heart on a different setting and let my mind remind itself of whatitwas forgetting and let me see whatitwas missing and let me be whatitwas repressing but dont let me sleep leavemedaydreaming and let me be and let me be let me run let me run out into that bleeding rain

/hopping and hoping/

Hey slap-daddycome see the sad english white boywith his pack on his shoulderand his eyes under his hathushing his way round foreign street corners.

Slow-go sonny-ladthats em travellers with a pack like thathopping and hoping between the train stationsseeing where fate and the timetable takes em.

Wishful fatherI wish I could be a traveller of sortsdo you think I could make itwith a pack on my shoulderand my life in my pocket?

Sure you could would and so you didmaking a living and living like a kingwith a window seat throneyou lived from your packwith your life in your pocket.

/a meeting/

I'm walking down to Astoria on the right hand side of the street to meet mates and fake an introduction to her since we've seen each other around each other's waists for some time now an older man sits a shopping bag swinging back forth between his legs looks up eyes as empty as the bag and a fag drooping from a smile its a good mile yet I'm walking down to Astoria on the right hand side of the street feeling my feet floating along the pavement the coffee's starting to hit or the nerves singing down my spine to my legs feeling like jelly under all 5foot10ten of me skirting around the crowds of fast paced pasty faced suits a group of them mowing me down not a grin between those frowns I'm walking down to Astoria on the right hand side of the street her eyes following me down the final few feet and feeling her gaze warming my face but she's not burning me yet.

/drinking wine/

Red not whiteby the glassby the bottlethe housethe topthe middleits not the taste that mattersbut the talk thatgoes with itthe talesthe storiesthe yarnsand fablesthat follow ourdrinking underthe table.

The scratchyunshavenmorning smileeyes blurry but still blueif barelywith creases of redbetween those white headstoneteeth of astainedunashamed grin.

Not quite ear to earbut certainlymaking headwayinto the cheeks.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

p a r t t h r e e - b e r l i n *

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

h o m e i sw h e r et h eh e a r ti s

/the kids in berlin/

This is something the like of which you had never seen.This was thousands of us dancing on the street.This was music louder than any club we've been.This was scores of stamping feet swaying to a single beat.This was thousands of heels and toes dancing to grind the carpet of glass down.This was the greatest night we'd known but we were dancing too fast to see it coming, pearl white teeth struck in a grin between every set of lips I saw told the story of this night that would never be forgotten even after ending the feeling would remain of that single burning Roman-candle crowd turning and spitting like matches struck and spiralling into life in the coffee stained night the orange streetlights mixing with the pitch sky to leave traces on the backs of our eyes and branding the back of our minds with a streak of a thousand pairs of staring eyes that glittered and shone like the gone ideas of mad friends flying along the Berlin night in a single blink of conscious thought I saw in the gazes that taught those tired and heavy legs to dance again.

OH WHAT SHALL WE CALL OURSELVES THIS GENERATION OF BURNT OUT KIDS?

/labourday mayday mayday/

We were walking with a powdercake through the streets of South Berlin. We weren't shouting, chanting or singing songs. We came along, for the ride, to watch, not to take sides. We watched the colour of the crowd blacken with the mood. We watched them move from banners to bangers to flares and fires. We were scared in truth, we could feel the fair-weather turning. We felt the first one at our feet, knocking us running through the streets. We felt our pupils widen, letting the light in, letting the chaos fill them. We watched the police run and the others run and suddenly the fun had gone. We scaled walls to find a better place to watch tomorrow's news unfold. We lost each other in the sea of wide eyes and unwound minds. We felt ours unwind too in the flying crying mass of kids, their dreams beaten like their friends. We felt the darkness descend and madness quit pretending. We felt the heat on our faces of the cars and hearts burning in the night. We are not fighters. We are not going to try and prove our might in the faces we saw behind the visors.

We were not scared to admitwe were too scared to think aswe read on the walls

OH MY GOD! THIS IS SOOO BERLIN!!!

/today tomorrow and the return of the bigger picture/

Jet fighters and jet liners carving up the sky,for the men in suits, in ties,fighting over their slice of the pie

and the pie-chart depicting the breakdownof the world economy,as it disappears down the pan

followed by your MacDonald’s lunchand booze, and drink and drugs,so pull back your hair and hunch

your shoulders and empty your stomach, your lungs, your heart,lets empty your pockets and drink our last.

This world wont stand long,but it wont stop turning,and it wont stop turning,

not fire, nor water, norGod’s little fingerwill bring it to its knees.

We’ll cough, and splutter,then it’ll all be overas we choke, alone in the corner,

suddenly so small againstthe bigger picture,too long we’ve believed our own fiction.

So raise a glass to each other,your friends, your lovers, us drunkards,and lets forget about the future.

“We are beautiful.We are doomed.”

(the final two lines are taken from the song ‘we are beautiful we are doomed’ by los campesinos and remain theirs)

/we stand/

we standhand in handwatching

watchingthis bruising morningopen

openits arms forthe day

the dayburning offthe night

the nightsplits and falls awayleaving rain

leaving raindripping down ourfaces

faces lit and burning withsmiles

smilesand in our mindswe know

we knowwe’re homewe now

we nowin the south-east of this citywe stand

we stand

Written in Berlin, Budapest and London by Lando Jack.

Thankyou for reading.

landojackjack@gmail.com

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