I'm not a poet but, buddy, I know it
I want to be a journalist in the 50s. I want to toil away on a battered old typewriter, wreathed in blue smoke. I want slicked-back hair, horn-rimmed spectacles, rolled-up sleeves and red braces. I want to stick it to the government. I want a liver like a pin cushion and a 40 a day habit sucking on unfiltered cigarettes. I long for the glamour of a by-gone age where men were men and women said ‘Sure’ in breathy voices, thick with Brooklyn tang. God dammit, I want to call my friends ‘fellas’, I want to knock back large scotches in badly lit bars.
As much as I love living in the shiny twenty-first century, complete with slick chrome surfaces and frosted glass, there’s a part of me that longs for metal filing cabinets and battered wooden desks. For whirring ceiling fans, white noise and static. Days long gone, almost forgotten. One blusey note fading away to nothingness.
Good night, and good luck.
As much as I love living in the shiny twenty-first century, complete with slick chrome surfaces and frosted glass, there’s a part of me that longs for metal filing cabinets and battered wooden desks. For whirring ceiling fans, white noise and static. Days long gone, almost forgotten. One blusey note fading away to nothingness.
Good night, and good luck.
posted by wide-eyed at 9:23 pm
1 Comments:
I take it you've been to the cinema again. Come on there's a series to write! Also cinemas are evil. Not totally like a demon, just slightly, like a chihuahua from a broken home.
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