Ciao, Bella!

By | 1 December 2022

This commission is killing me

I am waiting for my liberation
like peasants before the revolution
and patriarchs after the revolution

would I like to say something about colonisation?
yes! I would love to be colonised! I grew up colonised!
we loved the conquerors! my dad loved America and he
got me to read quotes by Western thinkers . . . Lincoln, Napoleon

Bonaparte, Plato, Pascal, Rousseau, Churchill, Derrida, Foucault . . . even Nietzsche

and he said there was no future for Hong Kong
the pigeon cages and landslides, no one will want
to live here . . . learn English, go to Australia
the land of comfort, where the conquerors
are thriving still . . . alas here I am
neither black nor white

the Switzerland of Asia . . .

oh God—

I don’t want to write another vain dull hopeless song for the editors
it is so tiring to sing for others . . .
it’s like a cheap pop melody
without mythologies . . .

if nightingales were paid to sing, would they???
if the gods had to go to work, would they have bothered making the world?

editors of the great magazines
I love you

but are you truly happy?

I am depleted
so depleted I resorted to using a poetry generator . . . (don’t laugh)

the following words are generated by algorithms and I think

they are
better than my poem:


I cannot help but stop and look at the dead words.
Now doomed is just the thing,
To get me wondering if the action is stillborn.

The devastation that’s really hellish,
Above all others, is the annihilation of bricks and letters.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the annulled,
Gently it goes—the unholy, the diabolical, the evil

Hatching like a bad egg.

Just like an insurmountable hill is the pain.
Pain—the true source of happiness.

I cannot help but stop and look at the fat sorrow spread upon my dinner
It was fried with lard and tasted like dog piss.
Sparrows roasted on the spit, country style.
Heavy feelings . . . they overflew the page . . .

Dark clouds, they ask no questions.
Moonlight, I murdered my wife.

Why would you think the assassination is helpful?
The assassination is the most hopeless hatchet job of all.
It won’t solve anything.
Never forget the despondent and bad assassins who fail at their work.

What is worse:
The editors may live.

Oh troubles without end!
They are fatal beyond belief.

Damned forever are the Bards!

Bad things happen, will always happen.
Now hate is just the thing,
To get me writing, wondering

If the word, trouble
Is mortal after all.

. . .

the wreck of rain
too dark to see . . .

I set to work, the loathsome editing . . .
great unhappiness awaits,

while the Russian tanks
never cease to attempt to unite the Slavic race

and the Chinese Communist Party does the same
and sends the People’s Liberation Army, the Poet’s

Liberation Army of editors

to liberate me



Oh great souls of the literary army,

I once spoke against you
I once fought, though my heart was not in the fighting.
But now, but now

I love you,
How I love you,
How much I loved you!
And I love you still, perhaps forever!
I love you like the running stream at the choke point, fellow
revolutionaries, my comrades!
I love you like the Western Plains overwhelmed by so many tears from
the gods,
I love you like the colonised columns broken by an axe, my axe I
kissed with my lips of submission,
My country of typhoons and tycoons, Zhuangzi and Laozi,
unsurpassed unenlightenment and the Luohans beating up the
cleansing him, changing him, preparing him for the current
the language of simplicity!
Books of hours and years lost,
new memories replacing the old,
Books of loneliness, ugliness, emptiness,
I love, I love, I love—
The death of my life, the birth of my death! For you alone

I am Switzerland!

Sydney, 14th July 2022

This entry was posted in 107: LIMINAL and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related work:

Comments are closed.