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Jett Bleue May 2013
You’re aged thirty-two with your own bottomless bank account.
A pocket full of cash that’s digging a deep immeasurable pit into your pocket.
Spending ridiculous amounts on ridiculous things, no matter if it costs over a million.

You’re aged thirty-two with your own supercharged automobile.
Fresh new stainless steel alloys and rubber tires to burn at the turn of the diamond studded steering wheel.
Chasing the marks on the road as you drive off into your own endless oblivion.

You’re aged thirty-two with your own house in New York.
The doors of which let hundreds of guests pass through night after night into the never-ending carnivals rides of Coney Island.

But when they leave you standing alone on your peer, pensively pondering your past,
Reaching out for her green light across the misty filled lake.
Trying to work out how to bring her back, but only this time making it last.

She’s just across on the other side of the bay,
With no idea that the hole in her back is being burned by the fires of your eyes.
As you stand disguised staring into her yellow solar flare hair in the morning sunrise.

You’re aged thirty-two with an unfilled heart.
Longing for the girl that you should have never left in the start.
But she’s with someone new and she’s probably forgotten all about that year she spent with you.

You're just the distant memory reaching across the bay,
The one that the whisperers say was a lonely millionaire aged only thirty-two.
Jett Bleue May 2013
Some moments you’ll find can never be recreated a second time.
Such as when we first met; a moment I assumed I’d easily forget.
But it still lingers in my mind yet, even though nine months have passed down the line,
I still remember that night.

When I entered the room to opened armed embraces.
Where the bottles of beer clanked together as we matched up our names with our faces.
Our conversations hatched open common interests as we spoke of the things we liked best.
Spilling the alcohol scented thoughts off our tongues that run as wild as our mind traces.

Our futures memories of the coming months would become locked behind the
handles of our rooms,
Held imprisoned inside the walls of what became our nighttime tombs.
The voices of my old friends echo when they rebound of the walls filling their own voids in the now deserted halls.
That lie barren as they wait to be filled by the next year’s crew so that the endless circle of old and new resumes.

We’ve watched as our friendships have transcended onto another plateau.
Through break ups, fallouts, spilled wine, growth sprouts, chinstraps and dropouts.
But the end is here and it’s time to go home;
Time to close the curtains on that perfect view,
And open them up again to something new.
Jett Bleue May 2013
He’s had a long old day between eating his food and getting stroked where he lays,
But when he rises in the twilight there’s always one urge he can’t fight.
His ginger fur stiffens in formation from the cold sensations of the night.
He journeys to the driveway sniffing the ground where her paws once touched down, as he follows the remains of her scent that slowly decays deeper into the air everyday.

The security lights hits his eyes and shines in his fluffed face, clearing up his vision as he looks for the trail of her tail.
She’s not here anymore,
But still night after night he comes scratching at the door.
Every time thinking, ‘just once more.’

I hear where his purrs once sang in my back yard those two years;
They’re now being replaced by his pain as he whines.
He stays a while, but the winds of loss toss his long ginger mane around.
He hangs his head and walks off into the midnight rain.
Where his tears run down into the gutters and drains as he cries his feline tears over the lost little cat of mine when he realises she's not here anymore.
Jett Bleue Apr 2013
Home’s not what it used to be.
The grass isn’t as green as the other side.
The sky is grey like the middle land between where I am and where I don’t belong.
The tides are changing,
Guiding me to somewhere else and pushing me somewhere new, telling me to just drift along.

This place has become my safe house
Somewhere I’ll come for rest and recuperation.
And to get spoon-fed like I was one year old again,
The stop-point to get fuelled up, like a filling station.

While I was away I felt liberated in a land where I was nameless.
Coming back home I feel like the alien that’s landed here in no man's land,
Rather than the boy walked these streets shamelessly as a local hero.
Now I just need some way to disappear.

Time passes here dictated by the clouds of monotony.
I’ve watched those clouds all too often from this same perch and pondering if I would ever find the gear that’s lost here.
I think I have found it,
But I’m still looking for the accelerator.
At this point I’m closer than ever to putting my foot on it.

I’m at a moment in my life where things could take off this road to ‘now’.
Because that’s somewhere I’ve never thought of being.
I’ve failed in the past.
I’ve surrendered to the future.
But ‘now’ is the place to stay.
I just need to open those clouds and accept whatever weather it may bring.
And I’ll get there somehow, along this long road to ‘now’.
Jett Bleue Apr 2013
We’re gathered here today to put to rest the words I didn’t mean to say.
The thoughts I tried my best to suppress, but slipped out anyway.
Delivering meanings that I didn’t have planned,
And messages she just can’t understand.

My acid tongue throws out its poisonous whispers into her ear, containing words she was never meant to hear.
But she cancels them out with her alkaline replies that don’t align with mine.
She’s the one who starts this game every time.
Throwing in the truths that bring me shame,
But when I claw out her flaws from beneath the dirt out onto the surface,
They impregnate her hazel eyes with rain.
And I’m always the one to get the blame.

I check the weather where she is to know if she can see the dark clouds leaving,
Unveiling the blue skies that lie beneath.
Hoping that one day she will open her hazel eyes and realise we’ve been through wet and dry seasons that continue to replay like groundhog day.
But all we can do is keep believing that there is a reason why we can’t let the storms blow it all away,
Just because of the words I didn’t mean to say.
Jett Bleue Mar 2013
I’ve never understood the pull of the nightlife.
I was always content to hang in my cave and enjoy the homelife.
Every now and then I do wag my tail and purse the trail of the pack,
Always lingering right at the back of the queue.

I follow their scent when they descend into the night,
While they ascend the social status stairway.
From my perch at the bar I watch the social sheep dancing to the beat of popularity:
The girls show off their twirls and brunette curls,
Inviting you into the funhouse down under that never shuts for festivities.
The boys weigh up their options with the biceps on display and perfect quiffs held up by ten tins of hairspray.
Hunting through the flocks of feet trying to find themselves a piece of meat for an all night feast.

When he finally finds his muse he bites her lip and grabs her hair, pulling her in without a care about those who stop and stare.
They kiss for seconds and he whispers in here ear,
“I think we should get outta’ here.”
She giggles grabs his hand and leaves through the exit at the rear.
His friends give him a clap and cheer, whilst his jealous rivals sulk and sneer.

After a few too many drinks I leave through the front, holding my head low to avoid a fight.
Bearing the brunt of another unsuccessful night with no young light to take home and ignite.
I fall on my floor with a case of helicopter head as the room spins in circles and squares in front of my eyes.
My lasting thoughts are of the day ahead; hanging dry and feeling as if I’d rather die.

It's just another day in my nightlife.
Jett Bleue Mar 2013
I watch you as you contemplate how you’ll ask this ******* a date.
You stir and go pale with the increase of your heart-rate, fuelled by five ale.
Your pupils begin to dilate from the spinning of your mind, which has induced a headache.

You twitch and you itch the same spot on your head until the skin turns red.
Gagging on your gin as it spills down your chin in a quick blast of Dutch courage.
The burden and dread weighs you down like a ton of lead.
All these symptoms seem so hard to shake.

Your tongue bleeds with how hard you’re biting it.
Trying to find the determination, but your fear keeps fighting it.
The pours of your forehead seep out the perspiration.
The desperation in your veins taps your foot in impatience, waiting on some moment of inspiration;
All this for a risk you’ll never take.
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