I don't dream of shiny crowns

Or of a life lived in a palace.

Keep your picture-perfect princes

For in my heart I'm Alice.

And I know no moderation

In the things I say and think

And I'll run barefoot and reckless

And try any food or drink;

Smoke the caterpillar's sheesha

Tell the Queen she isn't fair

Sip sweet tea and nibble jam tarts

With the hatter and the hare.

And I won't walk in glass slippers

Or wear dresses by Dior

And I won't have hearts in my eyes

If you promise me that you're

Going to give me my own diamond

Going to give me my own car

Going to make me be a Duchess

Going to make me be a star.

For I don't dream of bright ballgowns

Or of vaults crammed full of gold;

No those shoes will never fit me

For my heart's not bought or sold.

I'd rather stand against the Witch King

And the Wheelers and the Clones

I'd rather solve the Goblin's Labyrinth

Than sit sweet on pretty thrones.

I'd rather dive straight down the rabbit hole,

Leap right through the looking glass

Whirl away on a tornado

Tell the Balrog he'll not pass;

I'd rather make the Kessel Run

In a space ship of my own

Or pilot a moving castle

Than learn how to mind my tone.

I'd rather try defying gravity

Or captain the Black Pearl

Than wait wide-eyed for some fine prince

To pick me as his girl.

I could fall hard for a minstrel;

I could fall for Captain Hook;

I could fall hard for a mermaid

If she lent me a great book.

I could fall hard for a painter;

I could fall hard for a witch;

I could fall hard for a baker

Or a dreamer in a ditch.

But I won't love you for riches

And I won't love you for fame

For it's stories, thoughts and colours

That will set my heart aflame.

So give me truth instead of ballgowns

Give me laughs instead of land

We can wear bright paper crowns, love

And build castles out of sand.

Give me words instead of rubies

Daisy chains instead of gold

Mark me yours with paint-smudged fingers

And together we'll grow old.

Decided to write a piece inspired by a series of images from the pocket autopsy collab. Maybe someone could read this? I wanted to keep it gender ambigious (perhaps just about getting away with the Bob Dylan ref.) so boys and girl voices welcome! :) Then p'raps it could be a simple video?

It’s easy to look back now, at the slideshow of our love and see patterns in the pictures. I remember you in fragments, in facts and in fictions.

I can never think of you objectively, but I sometimes I think of you in objects. Lost things and lingering things. Memories in pictures.

And when I think of you I think of –

Rolls of film still waiting to be developed. Inside, we’re trapped, sealed forever in past bliss like Keats’ eternal lovers.

I think of the keys to your house that I still have in a drawer somewhere. I wonder what you’d say if I walked through the front door as if nothing had happened…

I think of your harmonica phase. You weren’t very good but back then I thought you were just like Bob Dylan. I guess that made me Joan Baez…

You hated my notebook. It unnerved you how I took it everywhere. You wanted to know every word but I wouldn’t, couldn’t let you see. You were relegated to the fringes.

I remember our night-time trip to the sea. We wanted to feel spontaneous. Instinctively, I gathered shells as souvenirs to mark our victory over routine.

I remember when you lost my lucky lighter. Not wanting to admit it, you replaced it. You thought I never noticed.

When I think of you I think of my bad habits – the ones you wanted me to kick. But I clung to them as if to quit would mean defeat.

But we are best described in ticket stubs. Those clichéd cardboard love trinkets, so often resigned to the tin boxes of lost loves.

I think of you in a history of lost objects.

But then,

I don’t think of you that often.