The Indie Kid came to my house this morning. He was lucky to catch me because I didn't have to be in until twelve. He had on his best Pete Doherty kit and an acoustic guitar by his side. He tipped his hat and said:
"Mr. Tuesday Kid, I'd sure appreciate it if you'd take my moleskin jotter and keep my dreams alive somehow."
The wee skittery notebook had "The Suicide Diaries" scrawled across the front of them in tippex.
"Are you going to top yourself?" I asked him.
"Naw, it's just poems about my life, and sure isn't life just suicide in slow motion?"
"Not really, no, why are you giving them to me?"
"I have to go back to live on my dad's farm now Uni of over, and I always thought there'd be some wee lassie I could give my poems to and say there's one in there about you but thon never happened and so I have to go back to milking coos and all that shite. Wee ladies down round Banbridge aren't really into poetry."
"What do they like?"
"Fighting and calling folk cunts," he said. By the look of him I'd say he isn't too hopeful about his ability to do either.
"I'll keep your songs alive," I said. "When I'm drunk down by the Lagan I'll sing them to the wind."
He pulled this face like I'd just said something wanky but I only did it to give him an indie kid moment. He sauntered off with a tip of the hat whistling an old Libertines tune.
I flicked through "The Suicide Diaries" there's not one thing I like, even all the stuff about the smoker. I'll put a few of them down here from time to time, but I haven't picked out which one makes me laugh the most yet.
