goodbye santa monica dream

maybe it's just bourbon
talking

but

suddenly i realise




i
probably
won't


be that guy


playing


the electric
guitar
on
stage





but -

maybe

i'll be a psychiatrist

maybe

computer monitors will
be my moons
maybe my life will be pixels of
black and white body parts

maybe i'll be the one
paged to cardiac
arrests maybe

i'll sit behind a desk and
rush through fifteen
general practice minutes or

maybe
i'll
stir soup
or create magic or
orphanages or transform
reality in to photographs
that the world will love
or i could spend the rest
of my days reading
in libraries or driving or swimming in
the mediterranean before eating crepes made by
old ladies on boats who visit you conveniently just
as you're about to climb up amongst ruins and witness
the most beautiful sunset that happens every evening
or i could just keep
drinking or drowning in nostalgic tears
or getting lost in alcohol-fuelled
dreams that keep me awake late
in to these nights





the trees outside are noisy
in the cold wind -





one day you'll have to stop dreaming, i
hear them say.

Love After Love by Derek Walcott

The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was yourself.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.