Back in the days of
scorched poetry, my heady heroes thumped noisily at the edge of lyricism -
their lysergic shadows in and out of the wealthy salons, bowed to applaud and
pressure; their lines split to double or treble meanings like forks jammed into
the brain of a dead bull - I had no problem in learning to walk.
It started when it
occurred to me that I would never find words equivalent to the up-in-smoke,
standing outside, on the wrong side of the curtain. Inside my thorax, love sang
with timbres of excitement evoking birds hurtling below the ceiling of a
lunatic’s room, failing to see the gap in the window…
Once aware of one’s
blinkers, what does one do? The suggestion came from Plato, I believe, who was
the first to say that in order to truly experience you must sweep away all
prejudice and to convey it you must use your tongue as a broom. After
discarding almost everything, I got nothing for nothing.
I went back and
rummaged in the garbage bin to salvage what I could. It stank, stuck in my fingers,
inconsumable. I was prepared to sell games, my body, to delete old inscriptions
on my skin and zap phantoms of daddy in my head. What I couldn’t foresee was
that I’d get sick with all that jazz.
These are blank
times to live in. He who helps no one but himself is the morally unencumbered
model. I don’t fit. I find it much easier to undermine than help myself. Hence,
I treated literacy as a form of self-vandalism (it always is, only, I made it
obvious). It wouldn’t be such a novel idea now.
Silence could never
be my style either, I know that. While I’m awarded the prize, these
realisations feel like an artificial light illuminating my head. Now, if hair
were ideas, I'd feel a greater need to borrow a hat and might not be so proud
of my baldness.
Is that the case? I let my idiocy speak for itself.