so Lachlan talks about traffic,
I get in my squealing Patrol and head by the river.
ABC Radio decides to shut down and I think of Jess.
my pill kicks in and I can’t drive far, I smoke, and drive.
I see a couple admiring flowers on a branch,
it is late and my high beam gets stuck on.
all this city has is a few roads that head out to nowhere.
all I have is nothing that I can save.
back under my yellow wool blanket I sweat.
writing this with my old blue jumper on.
I think how a friend says bullshit to me,
about fences that were not even there.
what you can and can’t give
just rolls around in the minutes.
I get a Berocca and just stare
at hours of people struggling with nothing.
I turned on AM Radio and heard pieces,
pieces of life in propaganda,
some making sense.
a guy that played classical guitar
was a little arrogant,
a woman made a photo of a Jewish man kissing a Muslim woman,
and what did I do? sat here and wrote this.
I need to get away from the stream.
it is just hours of nothing, nothing, nothing.
making a page and walking the streets is a choice.
even hiding is not wrong in time.
don’t feel you even need to do a thing, you don’t.
don’t listen to people tell you to get up.
though if you are like me you want a pleasure
of knowing something happened in the day.
you got issues and addictions that you gotta shed.
every day is hard in some way.
the only thing you can really do is not just pray
but make a move in energy towards it.
if you sit there haunting yourself
it will be just that, no more or less. just ghosts.
even walking if you can to fresh air,
driving to a beach, a park, a swim, a lake.
cheered up with friendship and so much for just sadness
when you have a laugh like pain across your face.
longer and longer go the pages in this soon to be tired grace.
so if something troubles just grip a pen and write.
type it out and think to yourself how can this even be wrong.
I look at someone like Lyn
with her spelled academia
in long lines across the page;
see myself as uneducated,
wanting just to breach
the fortune of a ‘good one’.
if checking the moon helped
maybe I could be ‘Thauma’.
‘Thauma Vie Mallic’ I would be.
now in circles like breaths
I inhale poisons of capitalism.
the paper the pen, nothing,
no reason for situations,
the baby I am, spoken.
so you get tired of it, the effort,
reaching points where you cannot,
will not, take a place.
lengthening out is fashion, money,
a design to sell, a purchasers power, consumer you.
you can drain the bank again, waste a few grand,
why not loan yourself nothing more than numbers.
your castle, the castle. how sure?
so to sum the cross, the books, the crooks,
all beating out a drum beat for your feet.
some story unpleasant, with miracles,
deaths, capitalism won again, in books, in T.V.
so write, write, write if you are right,
wrong or hit the gong (you wish you had).
sit there for 3 hours and breath in and out.
you can manage a fast, lightening waver or a hand on head.
the day before is here
and now like a challenge
I fear my insertion
into a world of mind.
you can think of fear
like illusions in some mirror
where you are fearing
something that hasn’t happened
and maybe never will.
so I tape myself together
in my warmth and guts,
making a slight error no bother
when I can feel a community
just breathing as one.
aching is easy
make a warmth
in your middle,
to your mind.
and small breaths,
give it time.
so dog walking
and giving up cigarettes
with the rain gone
and so little energy
for anything at all,
I just sit here with
my aches and pains
waiting for Wednesday.
a guy was coming
for my bicycle
and someone else
for a computer,
haven’t heard a peep.
so just sit and wait
try to read this book
and try to be human.