Fucked O’clock 

I find lately that I’m on a different frequency than the place I come from. I’m acutely aware of this recently. 

I can’t stay here. I don’t know where to go. I don’t know who or what would have me. 

I haven’t written much here but I’ve been expressing myself elsewhere under my own name at times. I’ve got to be expressing something. I’ve got to believe what I’m expressing. I’ve got to believe in my ability to express. I’ve got to believe that I can get through. 

Right now, this is all I can manage to say. 

Some people have the ability to manufacture reality for others.

I am not one of those fucking people.

You probably aren't either so we have that in common.

Lot of people just live here.

That's okay.

Maybe I'll try bearing my soul on this fucking blog to strangers who might happen by cuz that's how lonely I really am.

My world is nothing but mundane. I work. I worry about screwing up at work. Sometimes I study for an exam that baffles me and interests me little. I slouch at my desk and look busy. I anticipate terror that often times never comes. 

Sometimes I manage to focus enough to read. I finished Understanding Power by Noam Chomsky. I e-mailed the man. He wrote me back. He didn’t say much but I appreciate that he acknowledged an anonymous nobody like me. I learned a lot from that book. It did something to me. 

I came very close to angrily declaring to my therapist that communism will win. That was really the first time that I expressed candidly the role living in such a fucked up society has on the psyche. That is a huge part of this. This. What I’m doing here. What makes me cry. What fucks me against my will. What turns me into a homely yet charming robot who is programmed to provide you with excellent customer service today. What makes me do this. Trying to express without asking you for a credit card number first. 

That’s a huge part of the project. 

What do you do in the world when you just can’t shake something? 

I get lost in the night's machinery

with nothing to see but what there is to see

synthetic angel glow and Internet Protocol that never sleeps

keeps me company

and that troubles me

I guess I think about a lot of things but that really don't make me special. I like to think that I have no illusions about what I am.

I'm nobody.

I'm a scared boy.

I'm faking it just like you. No, I'm not a serial killer, you sick fuck. Fuck out of here with that.

I guess I'm glad to be alive. Thing is, nobody taught me to live. Not really. Does anybody get taught?

Sometimes I'm filled with dread. I think about all the things I'm not gonna be able to deal with that day. That tends to suck. That's a fucked up thing to do but I do it sometimes.

Frank Turner - 1933

‘1933’ is the first track from my new album ‘Be More Kind’ - available to pre-order now on CD, gatefold vinyl, deluxe boxset & digitally: https://FrankTurner...

This song. So god damn much. My god. 

Slightly Different

Monday morning and Eugene Debs is whisperin’ in my ear

The word is fuck. 

Fuck this. Fuck the boss. Fuck the Benjamins but save some for me, will ya? 

When it’s just about all you can say

When you ain’t got a prayer but mama says ‘em for you anyway

FUCK 

She whispers it in the dark

and then screams it 

fuck yeah. 

Fuck. 

Can’t say it in front of everybody 

It’s special like that, ya dig? 

I'm faded.

Can I tell you about how I can love you?

Yeah.

With my hands

and my tongue

and my soul, baby.

Half naked. 

Arms raised like some prophet preachin’ what nobody wanted to hear

but I bleed for ‘em 

so they love me

Get punched. 

Get kicked. 

The more it hurts 

The more they feel it 

that stuff people think is the holy spirit. 

Tightness in the chest 

need bed rest 

but the show must go on 

the roar of the diabetic souls 

that in the night 

tell me not to mix those two things 

gets me through another one. 

Fly to victory 

and then the waiting room.