Back to the Old House: The Smiths

Here began all my dreams. Me. 1980’s. The basketball playing quasi-jock with the Meat is Murder t-shirt. Much easier to be one thing, Phil Collins, a Volkswagen Jetta and a preppy rugby shirt, but that never quite worked for me. I had to grow out the front of my hair, visit Smash Records in DC, ollie on a Mike McGill Powell Peralta. The tweener, always the tweener, but deep down, aren’t we all? It was the poetry, before I really knew what poetry was, the Morrissey lyrics conjuring the ephemeral of everything. The Violent Femmes were a phase, The Connells were a phase, the Digable Planets were definitely a phase, but The Smiths are still here, still the old house, like the yellow brick one I grew up in. Tonight I’m standing in the kitchen washing dishes, earphones in, the kids playing cards or asking to watch The Voice, but I don’t hear them, because, you never knew how much I really liked you, because I never even told you oh, but I meant to.

Back to the Old House:


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