I like dreams and lost days and black coffee fantasies. Day old, cold cold cold black coffee. Café noir, royale, café brulot. Coffee that drips off spoons and spills into the gutter, into drains, and back up pipes again so you can hear it through the tinnitus buzz in your ears when you turn on the water. A soft subliminal sound that whispers the secrets of the universe straight into your head, speaking pictures of bubbles and powerlines in black coffee and live third rails that crackle when you lay too close by. There are cloves in my coffee and pills on the floor and no headlights, but the radio’s on. And we’ll go faster and faster until the thrill of speed overcomes the fear of death. Everything will be alright oh yeah yeah yeah it’ll be alright.
When I lay on the floor in the dark I see miles and miles of telephone lines, strung together across a sea of bubbles in blue and green. Power plants lit up at night and factories with shattered windows like broken mirrors that reflect the stars. Walls covered in dirt and rust, corroded metal catwalks with faded black and yellow stripes. Icy, wet stairs leading down into pitch dark tunnels where the air hurts to breathe and third rails crackle though the noise of water dripping and dripping somewhere far away. White pills and stale cups of coffee on a grimy Formica counter top and shadowy, faceless figures pressing onward under burnt out street lights, walking roads that never end.