Australian Atheism
A poem.
Have you heard about days that melt together? Bleed!
They bleed into each other. From one dawn to one dusk, waiting for the end of days.
Tale of times, waiting for the end without wanting to wait.
My thoughts are pulling me down, muddy waters and stanch of seaweed. I’m lost without my illness, lost with it…am I speaking your language?
Ground shaking, slowly drowning. The days bleed into each other. Too slowly.
On my walks I see kangaroos, I can still feel in awe.
Oh skin of ancient grass, you think I play on clichés but I could show you a rose bush grown out of a dump.
This is Australia, and the land where I thought I’d be ok.
You take yourself with you, and I took memories and the pull of low self-esteem.
A greedy child,
wanting to use magic. Change wishful thinking into truth. My truth. Did I speak your language, friend?
Fuck, the days bleed into each other so beautifully. Damp of blood and mystery (misery, misery, I wanted to write misery).
One of my problems is I never believed in ghosts.
Not even when I was scared of them. Oh, this fake ink is relaxing me now…
I’ll bleed and burn. Witch of no witchery. Salvatore, no more. I got pulled by a Hades unknown.
Hop, hop, hop. Do you know I write to escape death? Hop, hop, hop…
Ms. Kangaroo, did you hear me? I write to escape death. Hop…
The grass shivers, but it’s hot, and it’s yellow. A field of wheat not,
but all the things that sound like recovery. I should be hospitalised for long,
I know, but I hold dear the thought of getting better on my own. Your language, again?
Hop, bleed burn. Four times I wrote rhymes about not liking rhymes, and now I want to say Saturn. Mission to Saturn, sky auburn, the days that bleed and burn.
Can you tell the progression of the illness through screen and/or paper? No, no, once more: no electric cats. I just don’t believe in ghosts.
