Brett Lock
We have come to this place of gathering, my demons, my ghosts, and me.
There’s been unrest for a hundred years in my foundation, my history.
The first strike was from my father’s hands, cold and cracked from the factory.
Colder than steel, colder than his eyes and our lies with no history.
You’re on a train, maybe it’s the middle of the night.
You find yourself travelling.
A window on your pain.
You feel your mind unravelling, again.
At first sight of you in a magazine I wet my pants and I fell in love.
With a splash, adrift in a sea of change just as the waters got rough.
I was born in the summer of love, my demons and my ghosts and me.
The blood, the sweat, the salt, the tears, given life with no history.
You’re on a train, maybe it’s the middle of the night.
You find yourself travelling.
A window on your pain.
You feel your mind unravelling, again.
The ghost of my brother came round last night. He said: “Trade places with me.
I am trapped some place and ironically you are not where you want to be.”
“I had all the world could offer me, my body and my mind were strong,
but look at you, you’ve got nothing at all! Somewhere, something’s gone wrong.”
You’re on a train, it’s the middle of the night, you’re wide awake and shaking.
You’ve been travelling so long you’ve no idea how long this trip is taking.
You feel your mind unraveling.