The funny thing is, being
number one meant jack;
we were still carrying our
flea market clothes around
in cheap suitcases taped shut,
soles flapping from our boots
hair rigid with nasty hairspray
nostrils burnt out with Ex-Lax,
all unwashed and swarthy from
sleepless nights spent burrowing
beaks in more ass, more blow and
broken strip club toilet bowls,
abscesses birthing in our bloody gums
bailiffs back home bashing doors daily.
We were still living on meagre
per diems and undiluted adrenaline.
Then, like, a month later Appetite
follows suit – bam – it’s No. 1 too.
I imagine we celebrated
by doing what we do best
I say ‘imagine’ because imagination
is all I have to go on these days.
That and Youtube clips replayed like
bad dreams from an alternative dimension.
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