Holding my healthless hair back from the belly of the beast,
A mate said
If there was/is/will be a god
She must be one of those screaming artists
Tortured Lunatic like
Van Gough or Plath
A Syd Barret in the stars
only Those Maniacs can craft coincidence out of confusion,
Capture the cosmic bullshit
And turn it to days like these
Where arms ask for endings,
rhythms hide in traditional tides,
and antagonists of time bark from distant houses
at the perfect point in the conversation.
Where the same names pop up like notifications.
I sputtered some reply about
dreams and meanings and symbols made
between cynical sequels and
the long history of human suffering is
a series of amateur anecdotes turned to
physical fact
a delusion by a race in denial
of it’s belief that art
is in your hair
it’s the shit in your fingernails
it’s the salt and the pepper and the bread and the butter
it’s the atoms and the ants and the people and the planets
it’s the all at once and everywhere
the comic book credentials of your literary life.
But I don’t think it came out right because I was staring in to a toilet.
They always said I dribbled shit.
My mate had a point.
I woke with a hangover tomorrow
and went straight to church. -Laundry Man spoken at Spoken Word, freo prison last wed. need to upload more, sorry people!
