For Hera “Keats is dead” Lindsay “So fuck me in the ass” Bird.

Science has proven the poet Michael Donaghy

to be a poor Cupid. In his sonnet ‘The Present’,

less Galileo than a medieval peasant, he makes

two assertions that are false, one being stupid.

Zoetic are most of “the stars we think we see

on moonless nights”. They’re “extinguished”

only very rarely, to speak squarely, like untruths

spread by bad literature on dodgy websites

such as panmacmillan.com and thetimes.co.uk.

And moonlight doesn’t take “seven minutes”

to reach Earth. It only takes around 1.3 seconds

to make lunatics and other fools dance, to lead

astray the poets it beckons with a heavenly berth

what’s really a crack in the fundament of romance.

Have you thought how you might look on telly?

Because the way you squealed, totally aghast,

and the way you’ve revelled in taking revenge,

a director might have sized you up and cast

a bass-baritone as an emasculated Farinelli

playing an evil alien architect of a henge

that for 10 years now, when bridging the void

between the Victorian police and every “other”

is the sacred duty of the Triple R space mother

be the person sweet or offensive to the nose,

be the person black, gay, a “bizarre” paranoid

schizophrenic turned angry, violent protester

or a lonely, “rehabilitated” child molester,

has provided water for many a copper’s hose.

Given my idiotic psychiatrists and the silly state

of Victoria, that for 12 long, excruciating years

I’ve widely raised your secret messages of hate

and only been led to injection rooms by the ears,

would it matter to me if I was forever shunned?


Or could I to one remorselessly ruining my life,

a man who has prided himself on being a louse,

express myself better in a poem than with a knife

in some old, abandoned outback slaughterhouse

where, after being hung upside-down for hours

and receiving no response to his desperate cries

for help, when the sweetness of life only sours,

he could be slowly bled to death minus his eyes,

ears, nose, tongue and dick, without being stunned?

How I wonder if any of your poor patients end up dead,

madly run down by you in your fancy Mercedes Benz

because your first name ain’t Jack or Charlie or Fred

and you find it hard to make the sort of special friends

we all need to truly move up in the world and be alive.



I wonder if I’m getting needles full of gunk in my arse,

gunk that took all my teeth and gave me a plastic palate,

because so many folk see Muslims as the lowest class

you in turn subjugate the schizophrenic like the dalit.



Because 12 years ago you said I was clearly paranoid

to think I was attacked via secret messages in The Age,

that all journalists are always too busy to be annoyed

by me, far too important, famous and wealthy to rage

at a poor no one who doesn’t even own a car or drive.

Are we the only perpetual motion without power,

we who have committed acts of political violence?

Or as a so-called schizophrenic, in a lofty bell tower,

am I alone equal to a mournful minute of silence?

 

Fuck you for distorting the reality of all my fights.

Is not living free from phrenophobic discrimination

one of the schizophrenic’s irrefutable human rights,

regardless of behaviour and regardless of station?

 

Still being your patient, 12 sickening years later,

every day I lament the fact you perverted my trial

to serve in The Age a silly, vicious, secret little h8r

who painted the paranoid schizophrenic grotesque.

 

You’re a crook with Corruption on your speed-dial,

a bastard who ought to start clearing out his desk.



 

Because you befouled that Film Buff’s Forecast

and (after I asked you to just leave me alone,

after being silent 6 months, horror-hair arisen)

you said my paranoia was giving you no peace

in another false statement to your personal police

and that I clearly need another stint in prison,

because ‘twas again your monstrous intention,

in pissing on the so-called schizophrenic by stealth,

that many shrinks, a shady psychiatric convention

of conformist contempt for the freest of freemen,

would do your evil work in the name of good health,

denying me justice and drugging me as the demon,

like a blunt butcher’s saw through my backbone –

that is how all of the last 10 years have passed!