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!