Воскресенье 15 Апр 2007, 23:21
Dear:
Thanks for your letter. Sounds like you're living the way you wanted. And that makes me smile. No I hadn't heard Bjorn Borg retired, thank God one of us has a finger on an sporting pulse. No records left to collect your complaint. Well, Borg, Brolin and an unknown tennis trainer released something recently. No doubt your contacts in the Stockholm underworld can source that gem.
Got back the other day to find the pub on the corner had been burnt down, a dark London street story I wont't burden you with now. Determined as I am to write you some life affirming shit and not drag you an a regular trawl through the night seas to find what crawls. Yet I know they're casting their lots to see who can get the old pubs's lease an' turn it into more luxury flats. Brick by brick the infiltration has begun. I feel moved to take a spray can to the boarding. But can't think of anything whitty or on point enough to be up there.
The drunkards still own the park, D's still there in your old flat making beats and still owns the night. While this street can still shape shift and make you quicken your pace on a late night return. So I suppose we still have time. But make no mistake my friend I'm sure some barricade somewhere has started calling.
I'm so sorry we missed each other when you last came to town. I heard from Ndeye you sat with her telling stories for three hours while she put some extensions in a client's hair. She told me about Cuba, cigars and sacred drums, of arguments in bars, Dante, the color of christ and the only true poet. The south China sea's, remembered fa yung the Buddhist master, "how can we obtain truth through words." When she quoted your, "immature writer's plagiarize mature writers steal" - I was back in a bar in New York lower east side when you shouted that at '' maybe it was yourself, maybe I wasn`t there, maybe it's slipped down between the years ' My memory isn't exactly all that now. But my friend, you definitely hava a convert there, an if you ever need your hair braiding (and I know that's a long shot) then she's your girl. As my man scratch or maybe Rakim or maybe Monk. More probably all of them at some stage said. "You gotta check the new style." I'm assuming you are still running an old testament blades to hair ratio, and it hasn't fallen rudely out on you. If that's the scenario ' then my sincerest apologies.
Saw Mr. Brenan in the Holloway road yesterday. Walked past with a bag of potatoes on his shoulders. I didn't stop him he wouldn't have a clue who I was. He didn't back then when we'd spent month's sleeping on his sofa explaining which one of his son's friends we were. Well that's the price you pay for any more than six children in the Holloway road area.
I think of you often, and hope we see each other again as soon as possible. Until such time may the winds be at your back, the dice be kind, and the Gods turn the occasional blind eye.
sincerely yours
beyond the clouds
beyond the son
the rebel without a cause
Beyond The Sun
The car's on fire and there's no driver at the wheel
And the sewers are all muddied with a thousand lonely suicides
And a dark wind blows
The government is corrupt
And we're on so many drugs
With the radio on and the curtains drawn
We're trapped in the belly of this horrible machine
And the machine is bleeding to death
The sun has fallen down
And the billboards are all leering
And the flags are all dead at the top of their poles
It went like this
The buildings tumbled in on themselves
Mothers clutching babies picked through the rubble and pulled out their hair
The skyline was beautiful on fire
All twisted metal stretching upwards
Everything washed in a thin orange haze
I said, "Kiss me, you're beautiful..
These are truly the last days"
You grabbed my hand and we fell into it
Like a daydream or a fever
We woke up one morning and fell a little further down
For sure it's the valley of death
I open up my wallet
And it's full of blood