Wild Rose

Wild Rose

I'm home alone.
No. not in the smiley
American-kid-at-home-and-all-the-slapstick-comedy-that-might-ensue-starring-some-
precocious- kid sense, but in the sense that I am home and I am
alone.
There is Nobody else here with me.
I'm sitting in the darkness watching the shadows and glad that nobody
else is with me. I'm in my 'hating the world' mode.
It's three thirty, just a couple of hours after we parted. I'm halfway
through a bottle of vodka, scoffing it back back like there's no
tomorrow, trying to erase the memory of tonight.
The soundtrack to my musings is 'Where the Wild Roses Grow' by Nick
Cave , with backing vocals by Kylie.
Yes. that Kylie!.
What a pure clear voice.
No , I don't feel lucky, lucky , lucky in love or otherwise.
I feel used, used fuckin' used.
My friends were right about you all along. I wouldn't listen though, I
was in lurve , or thought I was.
When we met last year, they warned me off you , saying that you were a
vampire and that you would use me up until only a husk was left. I
laughed at the time , thinking at the time that the 'vampire' bit
referred to your Gothic appearance!.
Black hair/White hair.
It went out with the 80s!!
Sorry baby, wrong decade.
I thought it was funny when someone referred to that old disco song
from the 70s or maybe 80s, you know the one that goes" gonna use it up,
wear it out, ain't nothing left in this whole world I care
about"?.
Remember that one??
I do and I am , that it used up and worn out.
It wasn't my favourite.
Did you like that one?
I guess not.
Disco sucked.
I was more into The Clash/Ramones/Iggy at that time.
Stuff with more balls to it!
Punk rock , fuckin' mental!
HEY HO LET'S GO/HEY HO LET'S GO
Loud screaming punk rock guitars
Machine gun poetry
Machine gun etiquette
in yer face stuff
instead of insipid dance music played by people with floppy fringes and
effeminate singing voices.
Anyhow , I'm sick of being the one who makes all the effort, it's
murder.
Sometimes it makes me think of commiting a murder.
Homicide or suicide?
You choose.
I decided that I'd be better off writing.
Writing all my anger down on the page so I'll feel better , as if I'm
opening up my chest and pulling my heart out bloody and beating
saying"here this is me , these are my worries, angsts and problems for
you all to see".
I could go on about how it would be cathartic, but I'll leave that one
out.
Talk about being open, that's something I am , unlike you.
How would you like it if nobody answered your
calls/e-mails/text messages.
Remaining incommunicado for ages , then BANG, totally out of the blue,
you call and ask if I want to go somewhere/ take in a movie/have a
drink.
Man. I cannot handle that....is it me or what?
Okay I was at hand when you vulnerable and down and in the act of
opening your emotional baggage.
Yeah fuckin' great.
I was okay then , eh?
Then you come out with these references to this new 'someone' you've
met.
Everybody meets 'someone' every day of their life.
Everyone is "someone".
The man who sells you the newspaper at the streetcorner is
someone.
The blonde who pours your coffee in Starbucks is "Someone".
Everybloodybody is "Someone"
Why don't you just be honest!.
Instead of all this cloak and dagger nonsense.
I'll never understand you.
I need another drink.
I need to write this down and it'll take all night.
I'll just switch the remote and play"Wild Rose" again,maybe this time
I'll sing along with Nick and Kylie!!.