I had a dream that I'd turn into a modern-day Edie Sedgewick, and end up face down on a hotel bed in Chelsea after overdosing and prostituting my life as a piece of art. "They don't know me!" I was screaming, "They don't know me! They think they know me. Oh gee golly, goddamn," And a young man was tapping a syringe on my side, he stole all my gold and my Afghan coat. He said "You don't need that, we don't like them. Didn't you watch the news? We don't like those guys. We don't like you."

There was a television on in the background. It was a quiz show and it was going on and on and asking stupid people stupid questions. And they were so stupid they never got them right. Sometimes the man with the orange face never even told us the answers. He just didn't think it was important.

Well I woke up and he was gone, my coat was there and the news was on. They said quality control has been imported and Bill Hicks came back from the dead just for the day, to say that it was going to be okay and rock stars were rock stars again. We can smoke and drink indoors and make jokes about cancer but only catch colds. Today, just for the day.

My underwear drawer gave me an acid trip and the shower tasted of gin. I didn't need earphones, I set my soudntraack before I left the house. I walked outside and all the streets had melted past grey. In this pickled state all the clouds knit just right and dusk was a violet violin sky, because Pattie Smith said it would be that way. And the M40 was somewhere near ???, blacking back, slithering over windshields. The tube was all shot at ??? and the tabloids read, the tabloids read, the tabloids read:

"News! We are no longer passive. Jesus just flew through the sky hung on tenterhooks by a shiny black chopper and each rooftop, supended like a New York loft through pine trees and cedars. Women are beautiful because they have breasts and the rest, they eat meals. They walk into fountains wearing Givenchy."

I went to the record store and I bought a vinyl. I'd saved up for a month to buy it. I ran home clutching it to my chest, my arms were all skinny and stubbornly wrapped around sacred cardboard. They told tales of life before E numbers. Rubbish bins overflowed, they leaked the streets and landfill sites were being emptied.

Archaeologists uncovered our love letters, the found our hate mail, our social comments. Letters that rain in the rain, they were dried out and pressed by pen. I climbed a tree and crawled across a branch to a fire escape. I didn't slip. I climbed the fire escape and looked out on the sea of lights. They sowed lines like dinosaur spines on the horizon. The breeze lifted my fringe away from my forehead. I didn't jump, those strings scratched glass to a tense crescendo, oh.

I don't want to be here tomorrow.
I don't want to be here tomorrow.
I don't want to be here tomorrow.


Lyrics submitted by ScottishFiction

Fellini For Prime Minister song meanings
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