On the Road

I’m desperate to be loved
I wandered out last night from a gig
We played in a strange cellar
Which was better than a pink floyd tribute band
Where outside there was a quiet river in fairy light
That I wandered into through an arch at the end of a garden,
Feeling like little red riding hood,
So afraid with each step, and I wondered had she been,
As I walked step by step, listening, wondrous, Mira-night,
Seeing a sparrow drop an egg from a height
Where the speckled egg shatterments
And looking like an abortion,
I thought I saw a small fleshy thing
That looked like a heart,
In an old sedan with slashed tyres
There was some cardboard with the words
Iain, ich will brochen mit dir – Iain, I want a break
And before I wash all these words off me, and last night
I want to say that I dream strange things and I think of you
And sometimes I think strange things and dream of you
I want to sing, and I’m on an adventure where I am many things
And who knows what I shall be in another week,
I have been ill and cleansed of all that was in me,
And now I have had things broken, stolen, sickened,
I feel as though I am purging, purging, purging,
In a room with a heater, and cold water,
Turning my face from lovers, because of quandary
Desperation, because there are some gates
That I will not enter here, on this journey,
I feel, I feel, I feel little, or nothing, I travel, I travel, we travel,
Where we are beautiful, we are wonderful, for a moment,
Before we have to leave, before the smile fades and we must move on
Adulation turns to awkwardness so quickly, and soon they wonder
Why they did so in the first place, the magic fades when you meet them,
I cannot sparkle, or try to, when people seem already pleased.
Every night, we paint ourselves, we dress particularly,
So that we seem pale ghosts in everyday, I’m dressed in grey,
And then, and then, I am the palest, the vampire onstage,
Last night the white spotlight was on me alone,
And the colours for everyone else, so I was paler than ever.
The playing porcelain doll. Little doll travels unusually.
So far, I have over three thousand photos, my Arabian nights
Would be longer and more full of re-takes, while I leave
To dream, to dream, to dream, and dream again,
Of you, of them, of stars, of parties, of anxiety,
In van, in bed, in hotels and hostels and houses,
Strange sounds and stranger images, sex and more sex,
Where I wake up with the energy I cannot dissipate, cannot touch,
The comparative cloistering of a so-called rockstar.

Catspupil is on the road right now, touring with her band. Find out more about her artistic activities here.