I keep waking myself up in the early hours
shouting out for help.
Mouth dry from all the smoke,
feverish,
the latest song echoing around my head.

In the studio, all these songs dressing up longing and loss,
I drink whisky and laugh it off.

The phone rings for another interview:
try not to swear, they say.
I'll give it my best fucking shot.
Rub my eyes.
Yes, I have been going through the motions for quite some time,
standing in front of all these people
with the sense that I too am in the audience.
Dissatisfied.
I want my money back.

There are only a few moments when I feel the pleasure.
I'm not talking contentment. I'm talking pleasure.
When the pass comes my way and I rifle the ball perfectly into the corner of the goal.
When the pretty hairdresser pulls me back in the chair and runs her fingers over my scalp.
When I am drinking with Monique, and she is not breaking my heart, but showing desire.
So what.

I smoke so much these days, it becomes almost impossible to reach the pass.
I saw in the hairdresser's mirror that I am losing my hair. I'm going bald.
My desire for Monique brings more pain than pleasure. I keep going back.

I still expect the gods to intervene.
I still expect it all to turn around.
Mouth dry from all the smoke,
feverish,
the latest song echoing around my head,
I have deluded myself into the belief
that everything can be cured with a kiss.
So what.