The Drivel Thread

I miss you Morrissey. I’ve been a cowardly moron, and a cold automaton, and now I’m paying the price, by being without any memory of your voice in my ear and the touch of your hand.
Again I walked up through the park, hoping you’d be on one of the benches waiting for me, with Your Arsenal playing in my earbuds. It was a pleasant walk, though I miss your stare, your legs, your paunch, your shoes. If I see you again, will you be wearing your black trainers, or dress shoes I wonder. Flare pants I hope. If it’s winter, then your sailor coat. I didn’t notice what you were wearing on your torso when I saw you on the outdoor mall bench on August the 10th. My guess is you were wearing a blazer. I so nearly asked you to come to the restaurant with me, and so nearly asked you if you wanted a pair of my shoes, but so nearly is not enough to make contact. I swear I didn’t recognize you until thinking about your appearance there for nine days. I keep harping on about having passed you by yet again, much to my chagrin, I know. I’m being repetitive, but I keep remembering your appearance there on that pretty bench, and I only become fonder of the memory and miss what I saw there. Please come again, and this time, make sure you take me in your arms and love me. I want such a memory.
I had a dream last night where I was sat in a pub by the bar and Morrissey rocked up and I looked at him over my shoulder and said “I always knew we’d meet like this!”
And he said something along the lines of “well, yes that’s how I always imagined meeting whoever you are”.

I talked about seeing him at Troxy in London and how I met the journalist who gave him a very slapdash and uniformed review. We both had tickets for the same seat and she kept saying I’m a journalist I’m a journalist, so naturally the staff forced me to move and got me another ticket.
It made me think if someone like that can be a music journalist, why can’t I? And how I’d probably make a much better one.

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I wonder if I screwed up again with you this morning, Morrissey. Someone I passed by, I wonder if he was you. I wasn’t paying attention. I was freaked out, because my heart had about 4 flashes of pain as I laid in bed this morning trying to sleep. It made me nervous. I didn’t dare get a good look at the person I passed by. I only saw him from a distance, and then up close for an instant, but I didn’t take a really good look. I was shy, and from a distance, he looked Asian, and I was surprised to see a Caucasian face up close. I wish I would have taken a keener interest in checking out his clothes and face, etc.

On my walk this evening, I passed by a man pushing a shopping cart, and I had music blasting in my ears. I think I heard him yell ‘f***!’, but I’m not sure. He was wearing a covid mask, was very tall, and looked young. I guess he’s going through a rough time. He didn’t seem approachable, so I kept walking.
I wonder what I would have seen, if I’d taken a good look at the man I passed by on my way to the grocery store. Slowed down, and had a good look.
Morrissey you do realize don’t you, that I can’t track you down and go to meet you? If that was you yesterday, I’m so sorry I wasn’t paying attention to you as we passed by each other. And it’s Valentine’s day. Gone to shit. I’ll go out for a walk this early evening as usual, hoping to see you, but I’m thinking I’m doomed to be without you for the rest of my life.
anxiety bloody awful poetry testing the waters trying to feel good in your own skin trying to make friends wanting to alleviate anxiety wanting to feel safe to be honest wanting to have integrity
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