Posts Tagged ‘art’

When you talk
I can hear gears whirling and missing
And see misfired electricity racing to the end of burnt-out of neurons
You are talking to yourself and not to me
And you always smoke all the weed

Your world is populated by imaginary friends
A whispering, mumbling, shouting cacophony
And you’re always talking to them
But you say you’re not schizophrenic

You are convinced of your genius
But how much is pretension
And how much is delusion
And how much sanity prevention

‘Artist’ is a wall you hide behind
To avoid getting help
It’s all getting tired
Call the doctor

You need help
Like fifty psychiatrists in Jamaica bent out of their brains just thinking about your problems
You need help
Like Freud and Jung tag teaming you on a couch of marshmallows help
You need help
Psychologists, psychiatrists, psych-nurses, witch doctors everybody helping you
Then you might get your shit together
And stop being such a pain in the ass

most-beatiful-women-08

Stardust on her eye-lids
Cellophane kisses
Messy lipstick
Blurred mascara
Trash
Ripped fish-net stockings
Pours another drink
How does it taste?
Warmth of alcohol
Abandoned but unbroken
Trash
Glitter-ball perfume
Lust for doom
My darling
Trash
Lounging in the gutter
Vomit in her hair
Eyes on the stars
Which rotate alarmingly
Vomits again
Screams, kicks off her high-heels
Trash
But still beautiful

Kurt_Cobain_drawing_by_HerEvilGothM

To me the nineties were a wild ride through an anamorphic mountain range with mystic-ecstatic highs and dark suicidal lows
Living on the sharp edge of reality enjoying the futile effervescent joy of mindless adolescent kicks
Everything is more real and intense when you’re twenties
And some crazy shit goes down
Some of my friends didn’t make it out alive
I focus on the mountain peaks now when I dream:
Kurt Cobain saving rock and roll from hair metal with a serious punk rock injection
Cool music being in the charts thanks to Kurt
One crime- breaking into a Deli and stealing cigarettes only to find when I got them home they were all Menthol
That moment when a serious hangover was steamrollered to nothing by a shot of smack- the ultimate hangover cure
Hundreds of cones, bongs, pipes and joints to a soundtrack of the great distorted guitar music
Singing along to the Pixies ‘Some Marijuana- if you’ve got some’
Kissing the gorgeous lead singer of the Dumb Angels full on the mouth with a dash of tongue on New Year’s Eve- they were like the Ramones if they were women
Playing a New Years’ gig at the Orient off my head on speed and picking up a groupie
Having an actual beautiful girlfriend who was not made of rubber and enjoyed fucking me
Going to the second Big Day Out with Sonic Youth, Nick Cave and Iggy Pop accompanied by shit-load of quality pharmaceuticals
Iggy started tearing down the stage and shouting ‘Let’s fuck this shit up’
Playing a gig with my band at a punk-rock-party and getting paid in morphine.
Playing my songs to great applause from the other psychiatric patients at Fremantle Hospital and realizing that crazy people are the best people- my tribe
Playing a gig where we sang a song about killing the pigs and smashing the state to an audience that included policemen-who were way pissed off
Getting kicked out of my own gig at the Loft for being too punk rock as I was channelling Iggy Pop while pissed as Shane MacGowan
Dropping acid five times in five days when lining up for the Cure then ending up with an engrossing drug induced psychosis which lead me to believe I was Nick Cave
Playing a gig in a tutu to get in touch with my feminine side and annoy the homophobes
Great friends, great beers, great music, great drugs
Only briefly interrupted by
Occasional classes at University
Occasional weeks of work at crappy jobs

But not enough to spoil the fun

Of sacred rebellion

Salvador Dali

Posted: January 11, 2015 in poetry
Tags: , , , , , ,

persistence_of_memory_1931_salvador_dali
Look at Salvador Dali with his waxed and pointy moustache
The artist as madman paranoiac
Look into his googly asylum eyes
Everybody loved him
No matter how crazy he became
In his paintings watches are soft like cheese
And everything is dreamy and strange
He was forever stalked by the corpse of his dead brother
Who has the same first name
His painter’s eye a psychedelic amusement park
The only laws were the logic of dreams and the unconscious
These hidden laws, this phantom logic
Which mystifies us when we wake from dreams
Is greatest law, the purest law
Pure confused free association
Dogs can be God one minute and invisible the next
In a pit of tar is hidden key of a door forever locked
The primal black stuff barking at the earth
A subtle substance worse than dirt
While women break into chunks then guts,
Then melt down the side of phallic columns
By cartoon statues made of wax
Up or down? Yes or no?
The answer is both, non-duality, pineapple
But the ordinary lunatic does not have admirers waiting for their every word
The freak talking to himself on the train is totally alone
His eccentricity is poison to the sane
And they flee and leave him in the prison of his random rickshaw brain

kerouac1
I have had better relationships with substances than people
It’s not that I didn’t want the relationships with people,
They were just few and isolated like fly spots in a clean house
While pot and alcohol were always there, as long as I had money
‘The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom’ says Blake
It’s all about the loosening of semantic associations
Getting lost in a web of words and forbidden texts,
Zapping from word to word on wings of fancy
With Rimbaud and Dylan Thomas on my shoulders
The vomit of self-disclosure can taste sweet
When blended through the madness of my mind
‘When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.’ says Hunter S Thompson
But when I look at my panoply of drunk, drug addled and crazy heroes
Bukowski, Burroughs, Kerouac, Thomas, Rimbaud, Cave, Plath
I dream of getting wasted with them and swapping poet tricks
Shooting smack with William Burroughs and Nick Cave
Sharing a pint with Dylan Thomas and Charles Bukowski
Trying to cheer up Sylvia Plath
One thing I know for sure
I don’t want to die puking up blood like Kerouac
I wonder if creation really has to take such a toll on the constitution
Self-destruction for art’s sake is a myth, a trope, an illusion, maya
But it’s fun

The Myth

Posted: February 25, 2014 in poetry
Tags: , , , , , , ,

sid-vicious
I love the myth of rock and roll:
Nick Cave with a needle in his arm,
After scoring some speed from me.
Shane McGowan pissed off his head,
In the gutter but with his eyes on God.
Johnny Thunders OD’s one last time with his guitar by his side;
Keith Richards snorts his father’s ashes mixed with coke.
Kurt Cobain has a four hundred dollar a day habit because that’s all he could take out of his auto teller.
It’s all so glorious.
William Burroughs living to 80 off his head on smack,
Sepulchrally musing about shooting his wife in the head.
Punk Rock! Punk Rock!
Forever drunk now on the trails of you entrails.
Keep it together man.
These particles just won’t stop existing.
Do I have to get drunk to write a poem?
Or stoned and pissed or pinned?
Some would say the muse whispers madness that frees us,
From the critic hiding within.
Do I have to be out of my head on smack?
Or dead from barbiturates on a rail road track?
Do I have to believe in the Rimbaud light?
Do I die of love or die of fright?
Just put it all down and let it flow,
Let it dribble and let it go,
And all will be okay.
The same as it is in eternity,
Or any other day.