'A dead shark in an art gallery tells us nothing about death'¦
'¦and, for that matter, nothing about sharks.'

This poem is for that speechless shark staring glassy eyed
From the display cases of obsessively minimalist galleries
That smell fishy.

This poem is for everybody who has been burned alive
By the desire to push the boundary of art
Back beyond post-modernism
To it's rightful place in the human heart.

For all the exhibitionists who bared their souls,
For all the lyricists of urinal cubicle walls,
Unafraid of what the patrons say,
For all the street performers of unintentional drunken cabaret,
For all who stand firm as the night draws on,
For all the heroes of the dark before dawn,
For all the scorn of patriarchs,
For all the caustic smart remarks,
For all the boulders swept away,
From the scriptural shade of agnostic moons,
For all our resurrections from theoretical tombs
For all our septic poetic wounds
And lacerations of gloomy reality
For all the boring aimless sobriety
For all the adoration of drunken notoriety
We sang the same empty hymn as our fore-fathers
From the lonely sepulchres of intellectual cathedrals
And made no difference for all our stigmas
Made no amendment for all our evils
For all our streetcar heroin sermons,
Our oblivious stocious covenant of writers,
For all our misadventures,
For all the angry protesters outside the houses of government,
Blinded by contentment
They didn't realise
For all the wasted drunken inventions
For all perception's deadlocked doors
For all the hypothesised socialist street sermons
For all the interventions of Pentecostal crack whores
For all the hideous gaping dirty sores
That alcohol couldn't sterilise
For all our eyes at three thirty nitelink portals to bed-realms
Of manic laughing phantasms
Blinding bubonic dreams
And motorway orgasms of housing schemes
Of roadside halting site crucifixions
And salvage-the-economy resolutions
Of neo nazi final solutions
With no questions to find
In that euphoric sunset of the mind
For all our shit-rag delusions of heroic death
For all our stoic sunset stoning sessions hypocritical
For all the mathematical crystal meth sabbaticals
That tickle the testicles of the human brain
For all our vain elucidation that society won't remember
For all the bus shelters, train stations and sociology lectures
With their raptures of sub-cultures and deicide
For all the junctures where we couldn't decide
For all the roads we couldn't walk
For all our empty literary talk
That lived by the pen and died by the sword
After hours in the fever ward.

Poetry must move forward.

And I want this sentiment to strike a chord with everybody,
A new art-form for a new century.
And we must be it's reality.

Bomb shelter poet army.

Eyes ablaze in arc light creativity,
Our breath mingling freely with the victims of disillusion,
Our trembling naked hands scatter poesies on the plinths of soldiers,
And decorate the mausoleums of unknown commuters;
Posthumously.

Some things by being lost are found.

Our wrists bound in brilliant pink ticker tape solidarity,
For the lonely disciples of all forms of creativity,
Who suck deep and deathly from life,
Who held their dreams tight in the face of a sneering society,
Finding fevered sanctuary under sticky, flea-bitten blankets;
Smothered in the mudslide certainties of city streets
Shivering naked shoulders, night traumas,
Near-deathly frost of clarity,
Eyes in tears on corners of clinic and goliath,
Howling to the dog stars for sanctuary.

It is the responsibility of a minority to test the boundaries of it's society
Whether it be by means of poetry, prose, or procreation,
Saintly reactionary public artistry or display of emotion,
or a guitar with a steel strings stretched tense across the heart of the artist
This machine kills fascists
Whether it be by music or painting or telling a racist to shut the fuck up
Or by a public kiss on street corners of chattering homophobia.

And as I burn my love heavy tantric Sativa I sing a song -
as in Thelema, as in the Bible, as in the Bhagavad-Gita, as in the Koran,
as in the sacred personal text of every responsible human drug user,
Poetry fiend and contributing member of society,
Who holds reality in his jacket pocket.

Who knows the truth because he has lived it,
Who knows the lie because he contradicts it.

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