Dear World, It has been quite an interesting stay here, but I feel I must be on my way. I've always been quite anxious about overstaying my welcome. An overthrow of too many years on the boards. Whilst here I have met some truly beautiful people, by beautiful I mean in spirit, who have inspired me and been kind to me. Most are dead now and I miss them deeply. Unfortunately, I have also met an abundance of cunts who have left me broken in spirit and in pocket. Horrendous people whom not even Mr. J. Christ, formerly of Nazareth, could find it in his heart to forgive. Their actions discredit everyone and they think the human race is some perverse sporting event where someone has to win by any means necessary and every other person has to lose. When I discovered this truth I sold my running shoes and took a seat in the bleachers. The only thing those deluded competitive bastards have won is a place in hell. Their names are on the doorlist. And what's with the fucking weather? Earthquakes, tidal waves, volcanic eruptions, tornadoes, torrential storms and bullshit vomiting from my TV set every night? You can also stick your cooking shows, and your expert political analysts explaining the politics of the day to me via their own fucking bias agendas, up your arse! If you have one? It's enough to send a person mad. And how come after many thousands of years some people still judge others on the shade of their skin? Are you kidding me? Evolution? Zip. The other day I saw a prejudiced old cunt walking a black dog that he called "Sweetie"! So, racism doesn't apply to the shade of animals, only people? Well let's look at each other as animals and we might learn to be kinder. Beam me up, Scotty. There's very little intelligent life down here. The proof of that is aliens may fly past us but there's no way they want to make contact with barbaric rednecks. They've seen what we do to each other. What the hell would we do to little green aliens? But don't get me wrong, dear World. I have enjoyed some aspects of my stay here. Mainly the simple things. Coming home to a warm meal and a happy family; an open fire; being able to help a friend in need; the blissful ignorance of youth; the look in someone's eyes when they believe in you; the beautiful lies of lovers; and the true love of parents who allowed me to be me, even though they must've known the price that would eventually cost. I walk through crowds every day on city streets and all I see are the long faces of the disappointed. As though each face is one big teardrop. The world has certainly been an interesting place to visit. Just not sure I can live here. (c) Frank Howson 2019 Photograph by Vanessa Allan.
Don't stop me from having some fun Fun is in such short supply these days When I was a child nothing made sense And the school system shut me out I was too busy dealing with things at home To be expected to think during classes All the lessons I needed to learn were there Within my family And I soon excelled at observation And the devastating power of words Achieving an A every year My senses heightened to love And other dangers So I befriended broken people Some were too broken and betrayed me So they could claim credit for breaking me some more But others bloomed when they received the loyalty Of a friend And I was nothing if not loyal For loyalty has been my greatest gift And my deepest flaw It has undone me many times In the light of day The most important thing we can learn Is that we know very little We can send men to explore the outer realms of space And yet so much of us is unchartered If the moon landing was faked It is probably the most revealing comment one can make about human beings God would smile at our arrogance Attempting to create on such a grand scale for ants It seems, to me, that it's not what we do that counts Anymore It's what we appear to do So, perhaps we have finally accepted The truth That we are just B grade actors On a huge soundstage created by the Almighty And each day we rise to go through the motions And play our roles as convincingly as possible For the amusement of God You see, the poor bastard is so bored Living in the great darkness he shares with Satan Where there is no time And not even the relief of commercial breaks In my opinion that would make sense Of the nothingness And we'd at last know who we are And where we are Like the Joker One has to go insane to see the insanity of the truth (c) Frank Howson 2019
I remember you Even more painful, where and when You told me when it was over That you'd find me again So you searched all the hostels Inhabiting lonely men I was killed by your mouth You were killed by my pen I told you I liked chocolates So you bought me a cigar You have a cruel talent For pushing me too far I remember walking miles While you passed me in your car The same one I'd bought you When you became my star Now the years are conspiring To drive me insane Along with some of my friends Who only deal in pain So let me spell it out To you nice and plain My dance is slowly fading And it failed to bring you rain I'll soon be gone like Jesus To never come again You nailed me to your cross And made me watch you with other men They all hurt and manhandled you And I shed tears for my precious friend But you stood with them and mocked me I should've known how it would end (c) Frank Howson 2019
Let us kneel and say our prayers That something hears our call We think too deep And we see nothing at all Rome wasn't built in a day But I bet it took an hour to fall Let us not weary in our cause Until we right the wrong A place is not a home Until you feel you belong A country isn't great Until it looks after its own To value true friendship You must walk many miles alone Let us not rush to condemn Until we know what's real Let us try a little kindness Until the broken hearts heal Let us not worship false gods Like money or power For we will see their futility In our final hour And when we face the truth May we hold our heads up high And know we did our best And that the seeds of those deeds won't die And that the judgement we're given Can't be argued or repealed For the best of us did not rest Until the broken hearts healed (c) Frank Howson 2019 Photograph by Frank Howson 2019 Mui Wo.
If I should die tonight What would I say? I'm glad you came along And chose to stay And thank you for the love Shown to an orphan gone astray If I should die tonight That's what I'd say If I should cry tonight Don't turn away You've been my ray of sunshine Come what may You helped me through the storm Through all the nights that followed day If I should cry tonight Don't turn away You see me When others don't You're the one who tries When others won't In the temple of truth I was humbled and confessed If this be love Then I've been blessed If I should die tonight What have I learnt From all the battles fought And bridges burnt? I bore a heavy load Through all those dreams that wouldn't cease If I should die tonight God grant me peace (c) Frank Howson 2019
He's in that room Second door to the right Asleep on the couch Exhausted from trying to make sense of it all And from staying out of anyone's way He can't play the person he was anymore The clothes don't fit The lines don't ring true And the lighting isn't right All of his happy endings Added up to one massive disaster He stood up once To be shot down But that bravest hour His finest Misreported by many Cost him more than money And years And the loves of a life Although the fire was extinguished Some embers still burn When it's that three o'clock hour And the world is silent and God whispers "Don't worry" To thwart the attack of the shadow people For it takes a lifetime To realise That the more you're taught The less you think you know It's all part of the process Of shedding skins In order to set the spirit free From the chains of this world For you have to be beaten And mocked And fall Time and time again On your road to humility That will eventually carry you Above these prison walls The world has been taken over by idiots And statisticians Gossips shows and celebrity chefs And is a place where a couch In a tiny room Has become someone's refuge As he puts on his coat And goes walking with his ghosts Into a familiar surrounding That is at last bearable As he wanders With the knowledge that With wisdom comes predictability And explains God's boredom With us Can you imagine? Few can Take this man Oh, take him, Lord He who lived with trauma And the insanity of hope And walked streets that turned back into themselves Like people do And was insulted, defamed and betrayed By those he'd shown the most kindness to How much am I bid for his heart? It's weary from caring But it is still in working order What do I hear for his love That has the capacity to extend to so many For so little in return? What am I offered for his feet That have walked the world many times And yet were still able to stand while others fell? What will you give for his voice That was silenced for a time by experts Who feared his truth? Going once Going twice Sold Words (c) Frank Howson 2019 photograph by Bruce Woodley.
I begin this story in the deep state of insanity, God knows where it will end. It is your fault as much as mine, that it has happened. For, you see, I was the one who came knocking all those nights you chose not to answer the door. But I have waited, without thanks or encouragement. Good things come to those who wait, my mother once told me. So here I sat, in this darkness, waiting for you to acknowledge me.
You didn’t kill me with your slings and arrows. Or your bullets and blades. No. You were crueler. You ignored me to death. I couldn’t find it in myself to forgive you. For you knew what you did. I bled in pain and, finally exhausted from hanging on too long, I suffocated.
I was taken down from my cross by the few who loved me, wrapped in cloth, and buried behind a rock to make sure I didn’t keep coming back like Judy Garland.
But I did. Many didn’t recognise me as I stepped into the spotlight on the stage of Carnegie Hall. But there I was. Transformed. In living colour. “At the top of his game,” wrote one critic, a friend of the producer. “He’s a laughter machine,” wrote another. “What the Fuck?” was the headline of the New York Times. That last review killed me. Again.
I wasn’t used to the warmth of the spotlight so my face hurt from smiling. My hand hurt from shaking others. My back from being slapped by strangers. And stabbed by a few friends. The crazier I became, the louder they laughed. My jokes were all at my expense, hence my well-publicised bankruptcy. I had no idea where I was going, so that became my plan. It has been emulated by many since, and they’ve all ended up in the toilet. Some of us have been in the toilet so long, people are talking.
Your love only gave me cancer. You kept begging me for closure, but you were really nagging me to death. I see it all now. For in death, we all become safe, don’t we? And then others are free to rewrite their memories so they can live with them. And you become enjoyable dinner party chat (gossip that, now you’re dead, becomes safe enough to become fact), to sophisticated listeners on their own way to the big fade-out.
I have kept on living just to spite you. You stole the joy from my life so that I could be as miserable as you. You paid me back for having friends. For having a future. For having a past. For having a positive attitude. For having bothered to put up with you.
I knew that by falling in love with you I’d be destroyed, so I only have myself to blame on that count.
You have more in common with those you detest than you realise.
The years I spent with you weren’t wasted as I learnt more money needs to be spent on mental health.
I’ve been on the streets and caught its madness. Even the traffic lights are wrong. Yesterday the TV lied to me. The toaster has the shits about something. The bathroom has turned right wing. And the refrigerator no longer engages in late-night conversations about literature.
I loitered on the corners of Dream and Nightmare, where I died waiting for a handout. A leg up. A racing tip. A sporting result. A kind word. A smile. A passing ex-wife. Anything.
“Live The Life You’ve Dreamed” was a framed quote on the wall of the local drug dealer.
I have found Life to be quite addictive. Like an Agatha Christie mystery, you keep wondering what’s next.
I can’t afford to travel as much as I used to, so I spend my days going up and down in the elevators of tall buildings. Besides, it does you no good to get away I’ve discovered. Jesus knew that.
I can’t go home any more because too many strangers are living there. And I’ve been away so long nobody remembers me.
I spend most of my days gathering food for the homeless. I call it lunch.
We know what got into Chet Baker’s arm, but what got into his head? Have you noticed that nobody seems to care about the important stuff once they have their headline?
Where is that black girl who showed me that Life was meaningless? She said the less you cared, the more luck you got. I have some questions for her. But I think I may have lost her by confessing that I loved her.
My father always told me that if Hitler had been able to get out of bed each day before noon, he’d have won the war. I’ve not been quite sure what I was supposed to have deducted from that advice. So, subsequently I’ve forced myself to be an early riser for fear of becoming a lazy fascist.
My dear ol’ dad took things to extremes, and no matter what time of the day or night I got out of bed, my father was always awake. I suspect he feared that if he slept in it could lead to him invading Poland. A terrible burden for a man to carry to his early grave. But so you have it. That’s all I was left with.
But what do I know?
It came as quite a shock to me when I was asked to write a book and share my wisdom with the world. I was also somewhat confused when I delivered the finished manuscript to my publisher and he laughed out loud at all the places I’d cried whilst writing it. When I inquired as to why this was, he laughed so hard he fell off his chair and shrieked, “Don’t worry, it’ll be alright!” And collapsed in hysterics again on his expensive carpet. I had to step over him to get to the door.
Later that day I returned to his offices to pick up my hat (I’d left it behind), and was told that a board meeting was in progress discussing my book and it’d been going for hours and I couldn’t interrupt it. I listened at the door and heard many people squealing with laughter, and gasping for breath.
I cried all the way home.
But no one noticed me. Anyway, I see nothing in the eyes of strangers I pass on the street. Nothing. Just an abyss that goes so deep you can’t scramble back from it. I have found myself on occasion, falling. But then, I always lost me again. So I’ve kept falling over and over and over in search of something familiar. In the end, the falling became my life.
I was shunned by everybody and then told to make my own way. I wasn’t in the club. I hadn’t gone to the right schools. My parents were poor. I’d read about universities but didn’t know where they were. This was in the dim dark days before Google Maps. When the Labour Party believed in who they were. And so did we. Everything I learnt I achieved by doing, and not from some academic book. So, I became the eternal outsider. Always looking in on others easy-come good times. Watching them through the window as they munched on expensive Government funded finger-food and sipping vintage French Champagne. Some of the organisers saw me standing outside in the rain, looking in, and felt sorry for me. They said I could come in if I promised to dry off and only have a cup of tea with the kitchen staff. But such treatment only made me stronger. And hungrier. So I developed the necessary resistance to haunt them. Eventually they thought they should give me an award as my alienation was becoming obvious. So, they gave me an award nobody had ever heard of but it had my name on it. It lasted a few years before it fell apart. Beating me by a few months. But while I was somewhat together, it got me a few easy lays and a social disease. And, for a time, it felt good to be noticed. It reminded me that I was alive.
It’s best summed up in the words of Ballsack who once said, “There is something out there that stems from something that makes no sense whatsoever to anything other than the something you may attach meaning to.” I couldn’t have said it any better myself.
I do sometimes remember to look around at the exquisite beauty of nature and am filled with humbling wonderment as well as contrasting anger at man’s obsession with destroying anything he hasn’t had a hand in. Such is our envy. Such is our insecurity. Such is our shortsightedness. Such is our spiteful will to bring about our own destruction. Although, in those last despairing moments of our self-inflicted demise we will cry and whimper like the true cowards we are. And shake our fists at our mothers for bringing creation to us and thus sentencing us to death.
Exist-tense, if we stick with it, rewards us with a present. A gift, if you will. But that can only be fully appreciated if we turn our backs on the past because what happened then was just a series of presents that we initially devalued but either gained from or lost our minds over, and here we are. At the crossroads, going forward or being pulled back into the abyss of “What if?” or “Why?”
People with rooms to spare won’t take in a friend who is homeless. Why not? Because they’re afraid you won’t leave. They don’t mind killing you as long as you don’t die on their premises. And once you do depart this life, there are so many stories they can twist to elevate themselves.
I recently saw workers erecting a monument to someone. It wasn’t finished yet so I couldn’t define who the subject was. But the shoes looked a lot like mine. I wondered whether this monument was a tribute to me and my life. A life in which everything I had ever loved I’d reduced to ruins.
(c) Frank Howson 2019