the diary is a newstart fraud de art

By | 14 December 2009

the diary is a newstart fraud de art
& i am just a small practitioner, strings & beans
our memories promise us the threat
of fresh massacres and stale elections
props of the sovereign nation of the self
and unending varieties of the heart. And poor perfections.
I turn and watch the sun.
The sun is a red ball. The airwaves
cut through everyone and make corrections
liquid as paper
the last thing we want is our corrections
imperfections erased, when the imperfect is the purest form
– why else would red cars receive the most tickets?
or trains devour grafittied memories without tunnels ?
while *sigh* the grant they didn’t recognise rewards invention
ah! but is the invention rewarded without strings attached?
I turned the page and found a small typo –
the cracks spread, tendrils like a spider web
the officers empty my gutter self out into despair
helpful as when but an out and none, may we say
eat the correction paper, fill my mouth with white clay
bloody my knees, ready for the performance
now I eat my heart out
and swig Tang between bites, watching
conscripted as you co-authored
what was thought to be something of importance
entitled ‘But Names Will Never Hurt You’
What is it like to be someone else?
But I can’t remember the word for …
wednesday in french. it was the day i renounced the nobel prize for literature
after gazing into my diary and discovering no sense of myself in it,
only the glimpse of a miasma shifting perspective in relation to the outgoing tide
I slammed my pen into red ink, or wrist tears, and wrote on
on with the stampede of paper eclipsing the shuffling breath
on with the Nefertiti bust glazing at my discontent
On! On! Never mind the cannons, Squash down the fear,
bury it deep, colon deep, seize the feather

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