London is fucked for me now. All my friends are wankers who owe me money or won't give me a break on the money I owe them. My girl is fucking some other guy and I saw them eating fish and chips out of tiny cardboard containers at some outdoor shop and laughing. Pretty much all I do is drink and smoke and play video games.
The weed seems like it'll help but then I just get all paranoid and creepy. The gray of the city seems to come from inside of me when I'm stoned when what I want is to add some fucking color to shit. The World Cup is going on and I could give two shits. Unless they lose and then I'll probably start a fight with the next Spaniard I see.
See, the trouble is, I blame myself that she's fucking this geezer. I snapped on her about something trite like where she put my hand-held TV after she borrowed it. Don't know why I got so angry but things were never the same after that. I begged her for another chance and she gave it to me but when she started working at that bar in Chelsea I barely saw her. I got a sneaky feeling so I followed her one night after she got out of work and she met this fucking bastard and they smoked up in his car and then she went up into his place. Now when I'm not at darts with my geezers I'm traipsing around SoHo letting them put daggers in me every time they kiss.
Plus I owe a guy a whole lotta cake from this deal I tried to pull off last monf. I bought a bunch of brown (not using that shit yet but you fucking never well know) and passed it on to this numbskull who was trying to get it over to Paris through the Chunnel. Of course he got pinched and now I have to pay up and worry about Scotland Yard all at fuck once.
But, yeah, I still have a good time with my geezers down the pub when I can relax and balance the beer and weed just right. Without them I'd be noffing.
And yeah, this music might be something if I could get some time to work on it. The 808 is busted though. And all I want to write about is how I want to kill the motherfucker who is probably out with my girl right now. Not that I blame her. I did a number on her in the beginning and she just can't let it go.
Memory is a bitch.
I am the last/latest in a long line of outsider philosophers. While I'm scraping along these dirty London streets I am high above it all, staring down at the slate rooftops and pointed steeple spires, and you all seem absurd, rushing about as if your every move mattered past the edge of your molecules. And it don't, homie. It simply don't. All that does matter is a vision of the world that you'll never have, the singular vision, the one that includes all of us, but by very definition this vision is unreachable to any one of us, it cannot be attained. But our belief in that vision while being unable to perceive it is maddening to us so we transfer the intent of thought into meaningless things hoping to infuse them with meaning...a bird, some weed, a football match, a brick of cash. And you'll never see it for what it really is.
Take my word for it. 'Coz I see it all from up here above all you petty little bitches. Don't stop me from crying over her though.
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