I regret not writing everything down.
I have no notes written from the Chelsea hotel
two weeks spent living in a two bedded room with three women
escaping to the bathroom to masturbate
and sighing over wet bathmats.
A hot New york summer spent teasing my hair
and wearing vintage clothes
hot on the train to coney island
to see Joan Jett.
Walking through central park
wearing heady incense perfume
bought from saks 5th avenue
with too much money to burn.
Bee stung on the toe
still spending the time
inevitably, with another Australian.
Ex lover, ex soul mate and still most
Bob Dylan-esque character in NYC.
3am shitfights to find a hotel room
judged “by the hour?” somewhere to fuck?
Just somewhere to lie down
next to curly haired familiar body.
A regretful lack of notes from Memphis
walking through dodgy dark fenced parts of town
to hipster bars
shooting bad but free pool alone with Tess
happy in a derelict part of town
feeling a sense of belonging
despite platinum credit card
and expensive hair
talking to the barman
i dont think i was even smoking then
Regrets having no pen
sick with flu
uncaring after drinking it away
Wrote a little in LA
but not enough.
Now left with images of
melrose vintage gowns
and a feeling
of sexual awakening while
walking down wide busy roads
lined with shops but no people.
Walking all day
everybody else driving.
Sun on my shoulders.
Did I sit in the palm tree shade by the side of the road
or is that a made up romanticised memory
massaged in the middle of nowhere
to feel touched, felt.
Haunted by judgement of families
at the slot machines
mens eyes on my short skirt
in line for the buffet
like a dish.
Walking kilometres of strip
with drinks in hand
casino after casino
looking for what?
the next stop
i don’t remember.
Driving through forests
stopping at gas stations
buying small tokens of americana
even at the shittiest stops.
And an amusement park.
Constantly looking for a hotel
near a lake or body of water
to swim in the forest.
We never succeeded.
Rolling though fields
rubbing the cells of the 70s
on our bodies
in a cliched attempt at grasping
capturing a nostalgia for something
we never lived.
in memory the light is always bright but muted.