That bloody clock
just keeps ticking away, oblivious to the tension
stretching my larynx to breaking point,
reminding my throat how fucking dry it is
Stupid me, put my finger up didn’t I and
said I’d bloody do it!
Rhiannon knew it was a bit much to expect
after her long hiatus, but I loved her so much!
It’s so un-fucking-fair. My expectations of me,
others, hope’s, memories and failed dreams.
I just want to sing. Sing my little husky heart out,
warm my chops and put on a show – but no,
it is not this day.
My throat peaked off into falsetto land
without my god-damned permission!
I nailed it yesterday but those professional folk
down in Portsmith Club won’t be looking for
I stuck my bloody hand up and said I’d do it,
knowing full well I’d need to practice
for a month of bloody Sunday’s before
Stevie Nicks invited me back to her condo for a soireè.
For God’s sake!
I know I can do her, I’ve done her a thousand times in my dreams
and belted out that husky vibrato in A minor.
I sent the man a text ‘Can’t bloody make it’,
knowing his contemptable chuckle will reverberate through the atmosphere
on the other end.
Why did I do it?
Put my hand up and wave frantically for someone to take notice,
‘Here I am pick me, pick me – I can sing’.
I could sing, really well, years ago in my thirties and forties.
I feel so lonely without her.
She used to sing me to my happy place but not any more.
It’s like dying a savage kind of musical death and I’m so scared its over.
I don’t think musicians can really be bothered with a
from New Zealand.
There’s plenty more fish in the sea, so it seems.
I’ll just stay at home and feel sorry for myself and
cry myself to sleep.