Thou Shalt Not Emulate the greats

The B-Sides

It would be unwise to assume we are the only ones in this game of cat and mouse;

A game so riddled with dogs that it only appears to exists somewhere between a joke and reality.

We both understand that you’ll figure me out eventually;
regardless of the influx of field mice.

After all nothing says trust fund punk,
like French pastries and the smell of skinny hazelnut lattes still clinging to my hair.

The bands come and go and the predator prey tension becomes more palpable,
I wonder if you actually own a player for your newly acquired vinyl.

My Vans and refusal to participate are giving me bloody heels; The glass in this slipper digs deeper and it starts to feel like I’m fucking with fire.

So I let it run just to see what I’ll get,
you spill your drink on your shoes and it becomes apparent;

history just reshits itself.

I can hear the dogs and it’s just like before;
It’s no secret that I never did have a head for figures.
I have all this stuff lying around, from previous projects,
I’m trying to hide it but it’s giving me a headache.

A thousand words and a multitude of leftovers mapped out like a constellation; concealed beneath the uniform denim,

you sense my unease as I attempt to signal that I’m not his girl.

Maybe I’ll take that Paracetamol after all.