We met in the dark
I had just arrived
she told me I was just another fly-by-nighter
insincere and looking for loopholes
just waiting to sell out...
if anyone would buy this.
At the time
I took it for the insult it was meant to be
wanting to fit in in this place
long on pity
short on hope
like you gotta be down
broken egg shells walked-all-over
choking on your last chance
before pissing it up the wall.
Waiting here expecting apotheosis
losing ground guarding against bad ends
Our vices our poisons our poses
our private publicity
felicity with your demons come calling
I found myself there, appalling
'cause the contradictions
are only supposed to be fun
when you're winning
can't point to any tattoos of my own
but I know they're there
autopsy myself each day
at one's misfortune
feeling so full of good stuff,
that I know the tears will come back.
We met in the dark but I'll be damned
if that is where I truly belong
I'll leave scars for the fashion victims
show and tell and so scared
that smooth skin would make them less real.
I have now stayed my time
though she still says I'm a fly-by-nighter
still looking for loopholes
still waiting to sell out...
soon as anyone starts buying this.
No one bothers to tell darkness anything,
she doesn't already know.
So I guess she hasn't heard that hurt
is a bad means to any end
suture your wounds
in so many words
whatever dose you're doing
that medicine must at least feel
like it's designed to heal.
I've written darkness down until it filled me up
and the overflow has now begun
maybe now decorate thin skin
with a broad smile
call me a sell out
but you're damn right that's for sale
I've set up my stall here beyond the pale
that exchange made in talking to someone
trying to strike out a bargain.
we can work out the details on paper.
Call me a fly by night?
here for a good time not a long time
if you find
you should have your eyes examined!
Because believe me I gotten down down here
angrier than a missed-out mass of the big bang
I know now
my shadows are just relief thrown out of light
down to the man
still has to be part of the master plan.
So go on another blind date with darkness
knowing for sure she's a sure thing
but fellas, fellow dwellers
she ain't the one for you
all you should really be doing down here
is asking yourself where else you want to be
Because down there in the dark
(...guess it's hard for you to see)
if you're not at least trying to get somewhere
You are already far more lost than you'll ever realise.
I blogged this yesterday as a live poem (IE written straight into the text editor here without any prior plan or structure ), relief for a chest congest-er. However I was particularly embarrassed at it when I read it back this morning. I've now done a significant rewrite... so I'll only suffer a mild embarrassment reading it back tomorrow... and it goes on like this.
Also, after that twenty four hour reflection, I've decided to go ahead and name it as a sequel to "You Fuckin' Poet" (here) , which thematically it is, because while I think it holds as a general statement about not being in love with your scars/traumas (which is relevant to everyone), the angle of this is specifically aimed at poets.
While I'm up about naming the perfectly obvious:
the whole "you're a sell-out" thing from this has really been said to me. After two years, I'm still baffled, and yeah, quite disgusted at how poets in our little poetic community in Melbourne try and tear you down and put you in 'your' place when you try and promote your craft, rather than leave advertising in the trust of that massive publicity machine that we have to get people to our shows... because we do want people to come to our shows, of course.
Thi$ i$ Randall $tephen$ $igning off.