i dream of my life
my life of dreams
my dream life
i dream my life
i dream my life up
and when its all over
ah
when its all over
it’ll seem like it never began
i walk along
i take some money out of an atm
i glare at the passers-by
i get on the stockholm subway
and i hurtle along under the city
the swedes all looking so ordinary
the immigrants all looking so wild
i ride the train for a while
in my pocket i clutch a five hundred crown note
to score a cap of heroin
i go up to this couples flat
they let me in
ah the old familiar smell
of brown heroin cooking up with lemon juice
i hand over my dough
and he flicks me a little transparent capsule
(i think it once may have contained something for travel sickness)
now full of a brown powder
looking like quik chocolate dust
i knock about a quarter of it in my spoon
(always had yer own spoon)
i add a drop of lemon juice
(always had yer own lemon)
and a little water from yer needle
(always shoulda had yer own needle)
then begins a tricky process
cooking it up
dont burn it up
dont boil it up
it can turn into a useless black residue
no you gotta boil it in the spoon
just so
and it turns into a cognac coloured liquid
i draw it up
i find a vein
i shoot it in
oh! i jump if i miss the vein
cos the lemon juice burns
immediately
the smack smacks me round the head
in a kinda sick n giddy explosion of detachment
suddenly all my problems seem so far removed
the dingy flat i’m sitting in seems cozy
the dealers seem like such dear friends
smiling at me benevolently
as i put my little kit away
and roll down my sleeves
we sit there talking junky talk
didja hear johan got busted?
didja hear anna got more methadone?
didja hear about erik getting ripped off?
hows the dope in sydney?
how much is it?
how long you been doing it?
the same old stuff
i say goodbye to my friends
and i hit the streets
sitting on the train home
i sit looking at people
most still going to work
its only 8 in the morning
already ive scored hadda fix n on my way home
at central station a whole mixed bag of junkies climbs on
theres russian guys n slavic guys n finnish guys n black guys
theyre all arguing with each other
shouting and waving their fists
we come to another station n they jump off
taking with em their portable argument
i get out at mariatorget my station
up the escalators
i stop in the shop at the top
and buy a bag of mixed sweets
and walk outside
its snowing n dark n cold
the snowflakes settle on my face
but i feel very large and very relaxed
i stop in a supermarket n i buy some semolina
which is what i virtually lived off
make this milky pudding
throw in some brown sugar or jam
cheap n filling
at lunchtime i go to an n.a. meeting
mainly cos i’m lonely
and to see whos there
the usual bunch gathers outside the hall
champing n smoking in the cold
americans
spanish
italians
african
scandinavians
all addicts to some drug
people stand up n share
its mostly in swedish n i tune out
sometimes a rockstar or politician is there
sometimes someone says something un-p.c.
and the room bristles…!
a lot of people mouth the party line
and everyone approves
i’m pathetic
when someone asks me how long i been clean
i say not long
or i say about 2 hours
i often connect with other users n dealers there
and go off n score
i have even walked out of a meeting
had a fix in the bathroom
n walked back in
of course everyone knew who was using
but they remained pretty tolerant
i even turned up for sessions with my sponsor
completely on the nod and dozing out
i was a kind of functioning dad
i picked the kids up
took them to ballet or kung fu lessons or whatever
i made the simple dinners i could make
i got them into bed if they were staying with me
occasionally marty would show up n stay with me
i had an amazing apt in sodermalm
like stockholms eastern suburbs type of thing
(ie hip)
i had a little loft bed and an amazing kitchen
i had a huge living room
with big windows to watch the snow
marty would show up to visit his swedish kid
hed crash on my lounge n watch soccer all day n night
sometimes i’d borrow money off him
or sell him my equipment
(hes the owner of my fender six bass n my vocoder)
i spent the day
ringing up people round the world
trying to get them to western union me dough
somedays i couldnt raise any finances
very occasionally a dealer ‘d give ya credit
but usually not
my friends martin k n fred d helped me out often
sharing their meagre stashes with me
i often was hungry sick and lonely
i sat n wrung my hands in despair
but when the money came in
i’d buy a loada dope
n sit in my apt on bastugatan
happy n alone in my dreamy dope fuelled deleria
i needed nothing or no one
i watched days of our lives or read books in swedish
and i shot dope
when i was flush
dealers would deliver
and i became friends with a guy called kjell
a big athletic handsome red blooded swedish geezer
except he had a raging smack n rohypnol habit
and hed drop round my place
in the course of his day doing his “straight” job
and hed shoot up n smoke up the “roppes” as the swedes called em
there was something very disconcerting
at seeing this vision of viking perfection
having a fix n nodding out
but when things were good he came every day
we drank tea and ate biscuits (pepparkakor)
and discussed the events of the day
when i had money n dope life was grand
when i didnt life was a miserable dirty anxious hell
people tried to get me off but nothing worked
the pursuit of dope was my only desire
all else was some hassle
i made music with people
sam therapy n king dice have a track or two out there
but i was unreliable n either had had too little or too much
it was all or nothing at all
lost in a northern wilderness of pain
and all the junkies were insane
the stockholm underbelly
the dark secret in the heart of hyper-normality
hanging around the central station
strange hungry looking people
sleepy n demented looking people
whores n cripples n thieves n pimps
and amongst them there
look isnt that…that guy…
who sang that song….
nah!
it couldnt be him!