Monday, November 26, 2007

The Artful Dodger.

On Sunday morning,
there was no doubt,
that I felt different.
And the country,
looked changed,
smelled finer,
sounded brighter.

See, sometimes
you don't even know,
that you're in pain
until the fucking pain stops.

But honestly?
I don't like politics.
Because I don't like the fact,
that it is all a dance, a game,
and popularity makes deception
more palatable than the Truth,
which more often than not,
ends up being served cold.

My games are different to yours.
Yours are savage and satire,
intellect and smarts,
mine is saddened wisdom,
feeling blindly in my heart.

So I say, leave me be,
and I will do the same.
You can play adults,
ruling the world,
leading the people,
choosing your teams.

I am just happy to play
in the sandpit
of my own

Sunday, November 25, 2007

Glug. Ayyyy. Woo.
Yay. Cheer. Voosh.
Zoom. Argh. Blah.
Pfffft. Grrr. Waaaa.
Zzzzz. Zzzzz. Zzzzzz.

Thursday, November 22, 2007

The business of me and them.

You fucking savage,
you arsehole,
you bastard.
You carry that scar,
like it's a goddamn silver badge,
a membership key,
and what are we?

Ushers and attendants,
opening the door,
allowing you entry.
Paying the price
of your admission.

And in the dark,
will you change?
Will you pay attention,
as the curtains open,
and thrust into the light,
my fear,
naked on the Fucking stage?

I don't know, I say,
I'm here for The Show,
the dance and the song.
So, pour me a drink,
and let it must on.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Everybody knows that you're insane.

I'm sitting at the bar listening to that blind Italian guy sing Con te Partiro. I think about that story, about the woman who gouged her own eyes out because she could see the future but with no eyes to see the present all she ever saw was the future. Some days I can't tell if I'm looking at the future or the present. Some days I just spend in the past. Some days I don't even fucking exist in your time, I just stand still, and everything happens around me. Faster and faster and faster. Some days I'm sick to the fucking stomach.

I'm sitting at the bar and my friend walks up to me and I say, hey, and he says, hey and that's enough. He's not an old friend, he's a new friend, but he doesn't make me sick. Some people make me sick. But that's my problem, not theirs.

We sit for a moment which might be a minute or might be an hour. Today it doesn't matter. We sit and drink and stare and watch. We just exist. That's what people do when they're not creating or destroying and right now I don't know which one of those I'd prefer to do, so I just sit and exist. Anyway, the blind Italian sings a mean fucking opera and that's enough.

My friend turns to me and says,

I was at the doctor the other day, routine check up, and she started asking me questions about suicide. I told her, yeah sure I think about suicide, who doesn't? Everyone thinks about suicide right? Anyway, it's not like I'm going to fucking do it. Anyway, she asks a few more questions and I answer her honestly and she says, have you ever thought about seeing someone? And I figure she means a shrink so I say, yeah sure, I'll see someone, because everyone has thoughts, right? And who knows if my thoughts are your thoughts or what the Hell. So sure, I tell the doctor, I'll see someone. She says, I think you should see someone this afternoon, I'm certain you need to see someone this afternoon. So I shrug and say, yeah, sure why not.

Anyway I don't really think about it I just get out of there and go home, it's a grey day, but I'm not going to kill myself. Anyway I get home and after a while there's a knock at my door,and there's these two guys there, and they've got an ambulance out the front with them and they say, hey man, we're here to pick you up, we'll take you to the doctor and I figure they mean the shrink, so I say, yeah cool, I'll just get my jacket, but they say, don't worry about that, just come with us, so I do, I walk out the front and get into the ambulance.

Anyway we're driving for like half an hour, forty minutes, and I lean toward the front, I'm in the back, and say, hey guys, surely there was a closer place to go, and they say, don't sweat it guy, we're taking you to see the doctor, you just relax, but I'm not relaxed, i'm starting to wonder what the Hell is going on, you know? What the Hell is going on? Anyway, eventually we stop and I see we're at this hospital, except it's not a hospital, it's a fucking Psych Hospital and I'm starting to worry here, I mean, I just went to the doctor, you know, routine check up.

The two guys walk me inside and all of a sudden I'm in a room with a doctor and I say, yeah um Doc? I'd like to go home now, what the Hell is going on, and the doctor, it's a woman, she says, I'm afraid that's not possible, and I start to laugh and she says, we're going to need you to stay here under observation, as we believe you to be unstable and irrational. I say, what the fuck? I just mentioned suicide to my fucking GP, what the fuck do you fucking mean I'm unstable and irrational? I mean, I'm really starting to freak out by this stage you know? What the Hell is going on?

She gets the two guys to escort me to the unstable but not as unstable as some Ward, which you know, is still pretty fucking strange for me and I'm scared shitless by this stage. They put me on a bed and then I watch them walk towards a woman who is looking out the window. She says, any word on my case? She says, ARE YOU FUCKERS EVER GOING TO LET ME OUT OF HERE? They say, it's time for your medication, and she starts to kick and they fucking grab her arms and drag her down the corridor toward the unstable Ward. I'm really fucking freaking out man, I'm really freaking out, you understand?

Anyway, they keep me there for three days. They give me some drugs, I don't know what. They ask me questions, they ask me what music I like, I say David Bowie and they write shit down. What are you writing down? I ask. Nothing, they say. What nothing, you're writing something fucking down, what? Is it because I like David Bowie? Who doesn't like David Bowie? Does that make me insane? You'd be fucking insane NOT to like David Bowie! They look at each other and write shit down. That's when I decide to shut up. From then on I just shut up until three days later they come and take me to the doctor and she says, well first she sort of sighs, but then she says, against my better judgement, I am deciding to release you. I don't say anything, but I want to fucking smash that cunt in the face, RELEASE ME? What the HELL is GOING ON? But I don't, I sit. I don't even smile. I don't even smile, I act like a fucking dog and just sit and listen to her bullshit until they show me the door and I'm out.

So what the fuck is THAT???

Dude, I ask, are you making that shit up?

Yeah he says, I'm fucking crazy.

We laugh. Drink a pot. Go outside and smoke and watch that cool change come.

A siren wails as the police scream by,
and I can see the terror in his eyes.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Tijuana meet me.

I've been waiting at this crossroad for a really long time. Every five minutes or so I light up a smoke and slowly draw back on it. Hold in that sexy death and release the drift which forms, softens and shivers like last night's dream, like the memories of her. Fading fast and silver lined.

I'm staring down the dusty road for any sign of movement.
I tap my feet. I can't whistle so I grab a lyric and make it my own,

You never hear me talk about
one day getting out
Why put a new address on the same old loneliness

Everybody knows where that is
We built that house of his
And when he's not home
Someone else you know always is

I count the cows that graze in the paddock, I give them names. Gregory the Cow. Heh. I'm so used to laughing at my own jokes that's it's not even sad anymore. I see the sun rise and set, day after day, and I do not move. From time to time I think, "am I standing in the right spot? I've been waiting for a fucking long time, am I even standing in the right fucking spot? Why did I choose this spot?", but those thoughts pass and I look around and see how beautiful it is where I am, and how much time I have to myself, to think upon the things that need to be thought about. To think about cows and songs and cigarettes.

Sometimes I think, "Well, I'll give it another hour and then I'll head home" and at that moment I hear a noise far down the road and I know that I want to be here to see it, when it finally comes, I will be standing, alone, the only one to see it as it comes, here, right to this very spot. Then the noise fades away and I am left again, standing alone on the side of the road.

Tapping my feet and singing a broken tune.

To pass the time.
To pass the time.

Thursday, November 8, 2007