THE GOOD OLD DAYS.

I'd just had my bridge pierced and went to the pub to show it off to all the people who didn't really care. I was introduced to David, a poet and artist who had his septum done, his hair was dyed blond and I was uncomfortable, as I always was when meeting new people. I drank my fear away as most of us do from time to time and found myself comfortable in his company. He was wild, free like no one I had ever met and I was intrigued. Over the coming weeks we spent more and more time together. We would sit for hours across the table passing a writing pad between the mountain of drinks we had consumed. He would write a line and I would respond, I would pick a theme and he would elaborate. We wrote constantly, verse of no particular form, just free flowing words built on the foundations of drink and madness. He was a manic depressive, I was obsessive-compulsive(and still am). Half the time we didn't even remember what we had written, but it felt so wonderful to sit there with the usual Saturday night bullshit flashing around us while we wrote poetry, we sat through the disco and wrote poetry. We lived words and art and madness. Shit we lived as true as we could. He was always more optimistic than I was but I tried not to write about my little miseries, instead I tried to focus on the wonderful luminosity
of Davids words. His gift was not thinking, he lived as freely as anyone could.and it rubbed of on anyone who knew him. He is one of the reasons that I started this blog, because he inspired me, made me feel alive, made me want to write, made it all worth while even when it never really made any sense. I love and miss David Murray, At times he scared the shit out of me but I'm glad I knew him, some of my best, craziest memories surround our friendship, He allowed to to write what ever I felt and never judged me for it. He was certainly a better poet than I could ever hope to be, but I thank the hours for giving us the minutes to write.  Miss you Dave.