I'm speaking loud and clear.
can anyone hear me?
Or are you all busy catering to your neuroses
and your fears?
I know you feel lonely - I can hear you from behind the walls.
All that scratching and shuffling,
no reason to deny it.
We all live in a hole called self.
The nightflowers are here. Did you see them?
Did you feel the season changing?
Did you see all the old men and women coming out of their houses for a walk
accompanied by their Philippino ladies?
They're not afraid of the cold these days.
They're not afraid of death these days.
They're scared of the empty room
that awaits them in the morning
and echoes goodnight (goodnight) before they go to bed.
So you think you're any different?
Not susceptible to the human condition? Young and immortal, with time to spare feeling sorry for yourself and holding a chainsaw against your brain?
What have you done about your lonelinnes, huh?
Did you try to love yourself a little more?
You don't want to go around carrying a stranger inside of you. You will one day
have to die holding their hand.
Man, don't take it from me- I haven't figured out how to spell my name yet.
But listen to the colours- don't you want to go to bed with a rainbow round your head?
I've met blue, and red, and green, and pink and all them crazies
and they said to me: you make the most of it young lady cause black is unforgiving.
And so I try to fall for something every day, to keep things in perspective.
A song, a colour, a coffee-ring mark, a potted plant.
A road. Someone's house. Someone's problems. Someone and their problems.
A cat, a dog. The sky. The sky at night. The clouds. My dusty keyboard.
My stupid stretch marks. Intelligence. The people at work.
The people at home. A glass of water. Food. The drive to work.
The smell of frying onions!
No, I'm not ready for that cosmic cloud yet!
I've still to tame the elephant that will take me to the water-well,
I've still to admire my self and worship my non-self.
I've still to accept space and its spiralling darkness
and project my thoughts on its planets.
I've still to convince the daisies to open up their petals for me, and bathe me in their evening gold.
I've still to learn to keep my mouth shut
and my synapses open.
Sometimes I feel my head split open and my brains flow freely on the table. I've still to bolt my skull.
Argh, can anyone hear the purples bubbling up and frothing?
I've still to stop looking at my fingernails and give myself to the light.
One of these days I will wear my flaming magnesium and marry the sun.
I will shed the fickle lovers and embrace the earth's rocks.
Afterall, we all deserve those iridescent mountains that were born of lava,
cool and smooth and eternal.
That beautiful scorching sand is but an illusion, forming ever-shifting sand dunes,
bringing deserts. It hides all sorts of burning scorpions and snakes.
It breeds loneliness. Gently decline the deserts and head for the forests. Perhaps in time they too will seek the water and spring up life.
Ah yes, in this darkened box I have planted my trees- I am calling to you from among the first leaves, from among the fresh soil. Can anyone hear me?
If you want, I can lend you some seeds.