High Horses.

I listen to Patti Smith’s voice and she makes me want to write.

Write. Write. Write.

And keep writing and never stop typing and just have the words crashing forwards and onwards and never stopping, except to breathe as you have to breathe. Don’t you, even when you are driving, onwards, upwards, ploughing on through the shit and rain and the way forward is blocked.

Blocked.

Stopped.

Cock blocked.

Just like that.

A breath.

And it’s gone.

The rhythm is not there. No words. No drums. No jacket. No horses. It’s just black and white with whisky on the side. A little whisky. A splash. A crash. A cry from above.

Beaten again.

On the beat again.

And there it is. On the beat. On the game. On the street. In the rain. There’s no reality.

Just possibility.

You see.

Listen. Just listen. Keep riding. Keep writing. Keep going. And dip in. Read it. Keep it.

Feel it. Hold it tight and close and keep moving on.

Ride on.

And rise.