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| 03/06/06 (edited Monday, Mar 06, 2006 19:04) |
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| Something’s stirring
like a butterfly's wings
It's clear that, again, someone's going batty
Somewhere there's mud
It feels so gritty
under one's boots the sound drives you crazy
In the damp rain falling hard
taking shelter
in a cowshed smelling of stale hay and piss
so no one can think It's so nutty
I feel like i’m almost about to scream
There he says he knelt
the gay writer
with a name like W/white!
Pa-trick luna-tic
and he said he came to believe in the almighty -
I’ve heard taller stories but i take it easy -
and he wept like a baby
cursin’ the damn rain (must have been night?!)
beating on his wet face like thunder -
Is that where he caught the chill that led to the Nobel? -
I don't have an ace like that hid up my shirtsleeve
I must have cheated at the game of life, gambling
Voss, isst du, poker-face?
The countdown for the usual cast off begins all over this year
I wait in the days of Lent in a deserted vestry
standing by the river in spate
Can you hear the words of my roaring
it asks I listen Hear It's the same old sound
the crucified one crying out in human(e) agony |
P.S. The experiments in language are intentional. A photograph of Patrick White shall duly be posted.
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