it’s over with Madonna, the long, hot summer when I was babysat by a radio, I wear my baseball halo
some raise the dead, others just raise bread, raise your consciousness and see where my words have led
with a movie ticket to Bowies moonage daydream, I wait in the lounge, alone with strangers. It’s a secret pleasure of mine to see a movie on my own. I watch a ballerina dance with her wine glass. So give me a dollar of your money and a minute of your time. A moonage daydream and I begin to believe in my dreams. What seemed impossible in my life no longer does. Poets don’t have thick skins, we absorb everything, from a casual conversation to a phd thesis, from a house plants photosynthesis to a child’s innocence. Observations written down in a notebook, a satellite capturing the images of unknown worlds. On the red carpet I saw the trail of blood from everyone who’s gone before and lost their lives. A long time ago David Bowie came to me in a dream and told me to call him dada, an art movement of painters and poets and an affectionate name for papa.
I’ve had certain memories totally obliterated from my life, and I found my capacity in my life was only for growing things, words, because according to God that’s how the world began, genesis to revelation, genius to institution
that’s the thing about Richard branson and his virgin flights into space, put that on you’re bucket list. He was flying hot air balloon’s before then and nearly lost his life
Being a poet is a real struggle and sometimes I just feel like giving up. I’m drinking everyday and it’s affecting my thinking, watching the neighbourhood turn into a battleground. I prayed to my angels for healing, that they’ll take that poison right out of my hand. I come down to the undone river and watch a rebel kayak er. I’ve seen alcohol ruin my father, yet they’re so friendly at the bottleshop when they sell it to me. I really need something good to happen in my life. There’s a bandaid over my hangover every morning and my poetry seems like a foreign language and no one understands me. A cold wind, spots of rain, a spotted dalmatian dog, 5 minutes from the city, this is eternity.
I talk to the mental health cowboy swinging down the alley without his hat or gun, he asks me about the voices, there’s sawdust on the ground and my head’s in a vice, I tell him I drink too much, the city beehive of apartment blocks is around us. Like me he probably gets real lonely, looking for a little honey to sweeten his life. He asks me what I think of psychiatrists or the white lies of the government. We’re heading into Victoria Gardens shopping centre where they buzz around us like flies around dog shit. It’s just another day of madness in the city, wake up and smell the psychosis.