Homage-Laura C./5 A.M Decisions

Shut your mouth.

No, seriously, shut your damn mouth, you look retarded. That’s right, RETARDED.

Oh, London.

Friday Night Office Girls in Friday Night Office Uniforms; midnight tights running down the front of a leg. Nuggets and fries and half on the floor. Alcoholic grins, my new best friend, a slump, the sharp screen light, ‘are you OK? You left without saying goodbye!’, she’ll be fine, she’ll be fine, I’m getting off, she’ll be fine.

Oh, London.

With your Monday Morning People in their Monday Morning Gear; polished shoes, optimistic gym kit after the weekly conference call with the head office. Make up application from foundation to eyeliner flick. And emails, and emails and, ‘Yeah, I’m on my way in now’ and ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, I hope you feel better soon’ and ‘I’ll see you tonight, love you, we need milk’. How was your weekend, how was your weekend, how was your weekend, how was your weekend, fuck, we are already here, how was your weekend.

Oh, London.

And your average and your underwhelming and amateurs and idiots and fuckers and drugs, prescription and otherwise. With your, ‘Doctor, I’m feeling stressed’ and ‘Fuck, I hate that fucking job so fucking much’ and ‘I’ve got a date on Wednesday… and one on Thursday’. Roaming the streets and ‘Evening Standard!’ and the smell of everything all at once and it smells of nothing, pointless nothing. And maybe a film and maybe beans on toast, I can’t be arsed to cook, can you? Not pizza again and cold hearts and cold hands and sorry, sorry, sorry, EXCUSE ME, sorry, (fuck off, cunt), thank you and I’m sorry.

Oh, London, my fucking London.

You fuck me and you fuck me up and you have killed me and given birth to me. You hold my hand and squeeze it too tight and you punch me in the face and I apologise. Your long, humid nights, your blanket of grey wrapped around the worker bees that work and go home to a home that’s not their home. And then the rain… and it licks my face and it makes my trainers wet and it makes you look so pretty and new.

Oh fuck you, London.

You’re not my friend, you’re not my lover, you’re not my parent, you’re me but not me. ME. You’re alone and ‘Sorry, love, that’s going to cost you a 50p charge’ and sing to me, you there, the cunt in the Mercedes, oh please do sing the songs of your people, because I’m sorry, I don’t care about you and I should.

LONDON!

The stars. Where are they? And get a tattoo and bye a t-shirt and suck my big fat floppy cock of loneliness.

London.

What happened to you? To me? You are blue and you are red and you are black and dark and tender and never, ever sweet. Voices. Everywhere. All around me and under me and in me and above me and get me THE FUCK out of here and home to where I don’t live. The flick, the Standard, the screen light. And trains and planes and wheels and animals gnawing the bones of yesterday’s KFC bucket. Let’s get high and smashed and fucked and fuck. Let’s smash our teeth on the pavement and smear blood down our dresses and hang from the ceilings, swinging in our pointless, out-of-fashion ties. Grow up, grow out, grow into yourself. Put the shutters up, draw the blinds, scream in a stranger’s face in your mind. By GOD, headphones in, always.

Fuck.

London.

Fuck.


Read more of Laura C.’s writing at 5 A.M Decisions

Nonsense about convenience (malice)-Laura C./5 A.M Decisions

Just remember when you think you’re free

The crack inside your fucking heart is me

Sometimes I wonder what you did with the tickets. You know, those tickets you bought, for you and me, as a birthday present, for me. For that gig that you knew I wanted to go to; for that gig you had to know me quite well to know that I wanted to go to. That thoughtful gift. That thoughtful gift.

The date came and it went. And I wonder if the tickets stayed with you, unused. Or if they were sold. Or maybe you went. And maybe you took that girl you met on New Year’s Eve. I think maybe you did. You always were a cheapskate. Why waste money? Just don’t tell her they were bought for someone else and you’ve got the perfect Thursday night surprise, right?

Your confidant, your sympathiser, your heart-to-heart, your goodnight kiss.

Your lightning rod, your diversion, your love on a leash, your placeholder.

Your convenience.

How fucking DARE you.

A hammock in a forest. And an elderly man smiles and smiles, pushing me gently back into gentle swinging and rubs homemade chilli paste on my eczema-ridden feet. And then he takes me by the foot and the hand and pulls me out and up and around and around by the foot and the hand. And a one and a two and an up, up, up I go, into the sky and moon and stars and nonsense like that. It was a strange dream but at least it wasn’t about you. I dreamt I met you. I was walking and you caught up with me and tapped me on the shoulder and smiled that smile and I thankfully woke up before you said, ‘Hey!’.

No one is ever convenient, to others or even to themselves.

So goodbye to you, my own, temporary inconvenience.


Read more of Laura C.’s writing at 5 A.M Decisions