Thursday, April 21, 2005


Reassuringly I’ve thought
to trace my nauseous anxiety
back to the fact I was born
with what the doctors & dad
said was a ‘wet lung’,

concomitant possibly
to my disappointing inability
to scull, to smoke anything more
than a quarter of a cone
& to eat in tiny portions
that say anal austerity
over twentysomething gluttony.

& then when the television
salesperson bemoans the
third of the world that will
never learn to breath properly

your revelatory detective goes
a-ha & jots another origin.

You know when I get time away
from the ironic small-scale
anti-self-help-sales-culture crusade,
there’s nothing I like more
than to try & meekly metaphorise
my private nausea as relating
to an overriding aversion
against complete digestion;

I prefer surfaces & textures
& skipping along the aisles of love.
I am not conscious of heavy
Adamsonian aesthetic influences
except Stanley Kubrick, whose
straight lines & exact canvasses
make me freak & sparkle

& when marijuana’s exaggerated
complacencies become too much
you can find me wandering
around wailing GET OUT
in front of my chuckling &
wonderful friends. Today
two lives for the price of one.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

Don't worry foxy...My sister was born with a sweating problem. She can hardly write on a page with an ink pen without smeariing all the writing off with her hand before she's done.... sometimes she wears cotton gloves. And your hair looks awful black. Tis bit marilyn manson/danny minogue in her neighbours post YTT days.

1:48 AM  
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