9-9-09

9/9/09
I had a dream last night…
Strings were threaded right through my hands,
And I hung breaking from my fingers,
Before the string was cut and I pulled it
out with my teeth and my palms wouldn’t stop bleeding.
And I’m searching, exploring, for another meaning
that doesn’t paint a picture of sick salvation
I don’t want to be saved, don’t you get it?
If it had been under my control,
I would have put the string right through my throat,
It would have been a little more successful
and a little more gratifying than dying like the man
who created the world, he doesn’t deserve the capital
of importance and Hell, who am I kidding?
I’d die any way that Death willed, and let him
transport me from one grave to another.

6-9-09

6/9/09
They take you in for an operation.
Your head feels funny, your eyes go blurry.
You don’t know what happens next
at least not until you wake up.

They stick a string into your belly,
To pull you along the footpath,
They stick wires in your gums,
To force you to pretend to smile,
They stick clips in your eyelids,
To keep you wide awake…
until they press the button at their will
to stop the life running through your veins.

I’m your future – with a swollen stomach,
With bleeding gums and hanging retinas,
I swear, don’t have the operation
that forces you into not just pretending,
But into pretending to pretend.

4-9-09

4-9-09
You’ve got a demon up inside your head,
Making you feel this way – it’s so exhausting
just to breathe – it’s hard to live with
the spirit of death in your heart.
I’d read the entire bible in a night
if I thought I could exorcise the evil
from the way you live.
I’m not sure how to rid this evil,
Because it’s wedged inside my heart
too, I promise if I ever figure this out
I’ll do whatever it takes – to
let you live your life.

25-8-09

25/8/09
Passion fleeting, as my heart
is cut out and up like the slaughter
of just another cow a radio sound
in the background, that’s the twelfth
one for today, as he whistles a tune.

Artistic capability fading
from these two bloodied hands,
I’m down to stick-figure men,
with their thin little bodies and their
pathetic little hands pointing to their
non-existent chests and a red crayon
is my only tool, scribbled like a child’s
drawing that would find the fridge.

I think about the language
in order to just pass the time
in order to think about anything else
but the blood my heart is bleeding
I can’t spell laughter without slaughter,
there’s a selfish aspect to every act,
you can’t spell slaughter without laughter,
there’s a guilty pleasure in immoral acts.

It always leads back to a bare paddock,
All that grass and no-one to chew it,
It always leads back to the brain,
All that potential and no will to utilize,
It always leads back to the heart,
All that soul and no way to start it,
It always leads back to this fight,
All that challenge and no will to beat it.