Down in Albion

In the words of Travis Bickle: she cannot be touched.

Wearing leather boots, black leggings, a purple miniskirt, a gray leather jacket and elbowing a black patent leather bag ... she is, or ELLE EST. Boasting confidence with her short brunette hair and her red dye highlights ... she is, or ELLE EST. She cannot be touched. She reverts me back to the hopeless romantic I thought I'd be bold enough to shake off. An art student ... she is, or ELLE EST.
She isn't someone else, she could be - fake, blond or materialistic, only she isn't. She is but herself, no one else.
She has me turning in circles. Scribbling my hands. Off, daydreaming. Chain smoking to see her glow. She graces my poetry without a name, vandalizing the pages of a writer's decay.
She has me counting the minutes before break time, speeding off to the doors, for a glimpse, at he sheer innocence, her twenty-or-so year old face. Porcelain skin, model looks and physique. She is (once again) ... and cannot be touched.

Albion has me off in Arcadia, where I write countless pages of noir comedy - satire and bullshit. Albion, has me surviving off burgers, pizza and pastrami - all under 10 pounds, and all frozen. Albion has me underfed. Albion has me dreaming of 200 pound five foot rabbits wanting to kick my ass. Albion has me meeting druggies, winos, and film makers. Albion has me dressed in skinny jeans and trench coats. Albion has me writing this down, for you, or anyone dumb enough to read. Albion is watching me, through a camera in every corner, a robot in an elevator, "mind the gap" in a tube. Albion has me in love, with Albion. I feel at home, not misplaced or disregarded ... at home. Albion is a runaway and refugee's home, boasting of multicultural bricks and accents, Albion is the world, with the girls and their plimsoles, the guys with their Ray Bans, the pigeons and rats. Albion makes the druggies and pissheads bearable. Albion is the hand that writes, smokes and punches. Albion is me, you, and anyone in Albion.

Pardon the abstract bullshit, but I care too little for anything to bother me anymore. London is great. People tell me I hate everything, that's wrong, I love London, Bob Dylan and the song "Konstantine" by Something Corporate.
For once, I finally feel at home. I'm as inspired and crazy as I've ever been, but that doesn't matter. I don't sleep nights, I write. Like Rimbaud when he wrote "Une saison en enfer", I am Jean-Michel, writing "Sister Ray!", "Sofa King and troubled waters", "Blue murder on a Sunday night" and "Booze, burgers and oysters"... I am or JE SUIS.

Good night