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.