Milburn Drove Through Ghosts To Get Here

Guinness or Smith’s - that my kind of drink
But now and again, somehow, a link intertwines with a vodka-coke in my hand;
Jagerbomb in demand
‘Jager’ underling clenching fists as if a command to sway to the usual indie shite
Resisting with all might
Yet standing upright in a fixed position
Still at the bar
A craving for tar trying not to listen
I order a blue star and get on with the farce of the mission.
Aperture declining with sensations to lull
Not even early and the floor is full of those to avoid
Consciously annoyed
Indies wander looking destroyed after resting where they landed
Surroundings disbanded
Calls for memories branded within their citrus and corona
Resisting their name
Fanatically flailing to manic flowing rhythm
Local-based fame with nothing but a desire to shiv ‘im.
I have a beard.
'We can clasp hands like old friends and make the bad stuff go away. We can jump up and down like they did before we all got fenced in by designer jeans and nu-rave, the constant hero worship of our culture, the endless lists of good and bad. Heat Magazine will become a religion, and then a suicide pact and all those photos of Oscar night haute-couture and celebrity diet results will wash upon the shores of silent continents where the golden arch and starbucks sign still glow but we are all long gone, too sick or confused to protest or change the fate we have mistakenly opted to accept.'
-65daysofstatic