Teeth to dust with hazy cosmic jive and rust…

No matter how metal you may think you are, a drop of rain or a burst pipe corrodes and eats at you until you are tarnish.

And then after the tarnish comes the rust, eating away at you, thinning and flaking, and yet at the same time releasing. Oh, such freedom as you flake and spin away into infinity and beyond...

Until (landing on my old green metal garden table and all at once) an identity is discovered and - is that a face?

Goodbye love.

I was watching Top of the Pops the other morning, too late or very early dependent on your perspective. Watching, but not watching the way I sometimes do, unable to sleep. David Bowie, Marc Bolan, Suzie Q. Sixties and early seventies, the music of my youth. And as I watched, remembering those Top of the Pops of long ago, realising that I’d seen each of those performances at the time, as always my mind began to drift. Rusting away, words popping into my head in half-formed phrases, thinking of the way Bowie is rumoured to have written the lyrics to his songs – cut up phrases picked at random, then strung together to make a song.

Flakes of rust falling and settling.

I’m no Bowie. But the phrases that popped into my mind randomised themselves to make this; my rusted way of saying things.

To whom it may concern:

Oh, Julie Driscoll with alcohol fuelled stupidity and such consequences, to jump and leap through hoops and over fences.

My own cells have beat me in knowledge firm that such I need herding towards the hurdles to sweat and bleat in a fleece too thick for summer heat.

Used? Well no, not I. I’ll stand what tiny ground I have until my molehill runs to mud. No far too early paper wrapped declaration this time – so let us talk of blood.

Oh well, it is all our lots to be judged at the end and what we start to become an unexpected conversation between unexpected strangers, unfriended friend.

Blood is thicker than mud. But are you really so sly stone sure? Perhaps, but even if you never knew, still the mud might not stick as it hits the fan, so sure are you.

Blood is blood, mud is mud and in the end any day is just another day. Passed, forgotten, the cardboard reminder all just hazy cosmic jive down on Devilgate Drive.

So rust, contaminate this blighted life with lack of trust. On sunshine afternoon and out of school you looked and saw this stupid fool. All four.

But you without a hint or sign - and even then you less than mine. I brought that fowl thing home in trust to feel my teeth to fall to dust.

Teeth to dust, some hazy cosmic jive, some rust, but always, always in the end – this unforgiving lack of trust.

End of message......................................

That is the thing with rust. It is gorgeous and horrible all at the same time, and no matter how hard you paint it simply eats away at your fabric.

Goodbye love.