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Songwriter to Something Else (3)
Transitioning from youth — from songs — to poetry
There’s an interesting question I once posed to myself: Why am I wandering through so many different cities when I don’t have a clear thought about anything? I’m still three years from meeting Jenny and the last three years have seen me in Hanoi, Phuket, Phnom Penh, and Bangkok, deliberately, when I think about it these years later, trying to find trouble.
I did find it, several times, and when I did so, wished myself anywhere else. I don’t ever recall being brave, not since I took on Billy Harrison at school, and got my teeth knocked out, and when put in a position where my life was in some danger, kept yelling for my mother! I was forty-one years old.
Career wise, I’d settled into the entertainment and music industry. There were no hours, and my lack of discipline could be termed artistic temperament. What bollocks.
It was the time of life where, if I had idols, I’d met them all. Fuck me, how disappointing that was. I remember the first time I saw the Cunard liner, Queen Elizebeth, it was 1966, in Southampton. What a fucking rust bucket of a thing that was.
A fading sun
casts its light
a wandering bird
looks for safety of night
