Come (Sign On) Together.
Come Together, Right Now, Over Me… a figurative lyric turning to an all too literal job description, for me at any rate!
I never thought anything darker of those lyrics when I first got wood for The Beatles. It’s just that, over time, they get into the grain of you, similar to a type of insect their name parodies… we’re all on some kind of death watch.
Why do they call it rock bottom? Is it stony down there? Is one too stoned to care? Or is it because you’re a pariah, pelted with hard objects?
The day it started was nothing special. I was in my bedsit (where else?) A poky hutch begrimed with the attritional misery of previous occupants. I was standing, naked for some reason, clutching my phone, the placenta I was joined to by umbilical headphones, tracing the numbingly placid faded daisy patterns on the wallpaper. Pinkish stripes ran sharply through what I think was lemon originally, but too many fag fumes, dirt and poverty stricken angst has coated the faded colour in black smudges of grease.
Fear, fear, how did you get me here? I’ve got to be there in ten minutes, but I haven’t got a stitch to wear, or an iota of care? Swollen eyes, burning and watering like they’ve been the plaything for killer bees, swarm around the miserable, defeated pink carpet for half presentable, somewhat clean clothes… was I better than this once? A lucid corner of my head has the gall to ask. The lobotomized masses of neurons pay no heed as I throw on a black t-shirt and some jeans that have been ravaged to achieve a “fashionably worn” look. Though dressed, I feel even colder, so cold it aches, must be the iceberg nearby… I need to go there though.
More to "come... "
© Brad James, 2014.