Wednesday, February 6, 2008

Writer's Block.

Instant fucking poetry.
Instant fucking crowd.

Just for now,
just for tonight,
let’s write,

like there are no rules,
like no one will judge,
what words we choose,

and if our timing is off

or our rhymes
too late,

there’s nothing to prove,
nothing to lose,

Is there?

Do you care?

Where are the rules?

Which say,

if I feel it,

then what fucking right
do they
have to say




And whatever you do,

don’t fucking think.


How do you feel?

Here we go.

I got caught in the rain, I got soaked, but fuck me, I felt alive.
Yesterday I was in a park, and a girl stood in front of me and I touched her breasts and she kissed my neck. We didn’t fuck, but fuck me I felt alive.
Last night I wanted to write, about how when I saw my mother’s dead body – coffin, Gold Coast, displaced – she was so YELLOW. So fucking YELLOW. But fuck me, I felt alive.
Today, tonight, I didn’t care that I couldn’t write, that I had nothing to impress people with, that in my room, with my cigarettes, with a glass of red wine, with a piece of bread, with a dead cat, with cold skin, with slow burn, with eyes dead ahead, with no direction, with restless hands, with an open window, with a song in the wind, with a head full of heart, with dreams of tomorrow, with nothing but hope, with a piece of conceit, with a bird in my hand, with nothing but shit, with no point but this -

fuck me,

I’m alive.

you click,
and you think:

God, what rubbish.

But fuck me,

it’s raining,

and I feel alive.

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