I’ve blogged them before, but what the hey, here they are again. Click to enlarge.
Strange Worlds Away Given the nation pays them to be dour and forever carve a hero in their image from even the most juvenile of crimes, retarding poets, leaving the demonised strange worlds away from repentance, may the gift to freely contest the power of all psychiatrists be enshrined as a right inalienable for all people at all times and never again, like aspirin, be dissolved by any judge in any punitive sentence. Nietzsche's Cock A solitary who often downed his slacks, it must have awoken him to his paternity of not just one monster but a myriad, his cock, and if you sharpen eternity on the rough whetstone of your period what you hold in your hand is an axe. Onward Christian Soldiers Well, given many a door is knocked in the knowledge that a real psycho, a savage dealer of party pills and pot who's always loaded, always cocked, might see a secret Rasputinian Trot on a murderous mission from Tycho and a righteous response in slavery, are they not beautiful in their bravery? Leunig the Lost What a true source of spiritual direction, the duck. What a holy symbol of the hope fulfilment is fated. Say the dirty drakes that respond to rejection by gang-raping any poor female duck perilously isolated: "Obey every erection for a fuck's a fuck!" Seed Head Like a fragile little seed head, on a windy day I was blown apart and scattered all over the yard. But I basked in the warm sun, I drank the water from showers and I awoke to the power of art to transform everything hard into many pretty little flowers. I died but I didn't remain dead and I threw away my knife and gun.
My dear, as even true monsters are taught to behave by poetry's enriching powers, the words you now place on every stave drop like Jews huddled together in showers, like toddlers during a heat wave and businessmen from blazing towers. They drop like the pants of the pathetic slave who hates scouring for porn but scours, the drunk who downs many shots of aftershave in preference to whisky sours and the exhilarating monster wave that drowns the tired poets it devours.
For Jim Schembri and Lawrence Money. It was often said of Saddam Hussein by those in favour of his dethronement that when he really wanted to be gory he literally tore his enemies to shreds by throwing them into a huge grinder. And our dictator was clearly insane. He ground the notion of atonement with hands hardened by the crank. But turning men into mince? The story was exposed as atrocity propaganda, and didn't they then shake their heads, the journos who could be a lot kinder to this here former criminal of little rank long defaced by their lack of candour concerning certain assaults by stealth, long rendered by all the social workers, nurses and cops who slavishly follow our messianic masters of mental health, unduly rounding up unhappy lurkers outside hallowed cathedrals, so hollow.
To every so-called incel So you were rejected by a cold-blooded darling who showed you no respect at all, a glass danseuse spinning a lie in a beautiful pirouette yet upon all the troubles of the world afloat. No wonder you couldn’t swallow her without chewing! But of course she’s now shredding your gullet! But good women out there are listening. So do you shove a few fingers down your throat and bring up a bloody muck of desire and regret to be swallowed with additional slurs? Do you lower yourself in an orgy of snarling? Or do you, like a furnace built only for renewing a warm spiritual path to a woman unique and dear, to wine glasses glistening in the candlelight of a chandelier, swallow your danseuse and digest her like cullet?
For Jim Schembri and Lawrence Money I bet it was more brutal for thinking her boy lost to schizophrenia, my poor mother’s death. Being on opposite sides in her final hours, cruelly separated by the psychiatric shibboleth that has long branded as deeply psychotic what reason defends with the utmost rigour (my belief that you used a major newspaper to secretly ridicule the schizophrenic nigger), and by my inexplicable, unspeakable habit of disappearing in the Devil’s triangle of bliss, I abandoned her to the days before I became in love EVERYTHING and nothing but a pissoir for your piss, and with her fearing her meeting with Jehovah, to the thought that she alone fucked me over.
For Jim Schembri and Paul Harris. Flaring up and fading like a spliff being smoked by the Almighty, it has performed a solar cycle, the sun, since two broadcasters viciously ridiculed my madness on air without saying the name “Michael”, and eleven years have passed since I was first deemed paranoid in relation to the cowardly attack by a shrink trained to typecast every angry schizophrenic male as “just another violent menace so deeply removed from reality he can’t be re-educated in jail”, and here I am, still being drugged because my ire is deemed sick, still hoping you’ll mercifully employ your vast cinematic knowledge and not only advance the fine arts by defending what’s individualistic in many a madman, the true rebel the psychiatrist seeks to diminish, but give the story of the cinéastes - who were given the easiest of parts as witnesses to evil and shrugged - the sheen of a restorative finish.