they think this
is easy
that all it takes is
a snap of the fingers
and the words just
magically appear
on the page
they don’t understand
the pain, the scars
the horrific memories
that make you cry
the fact there is
no joy
the rainbows fade
into a ghetto where
you saw a man shot
down on live television
Through the open window
the four o’ clock sun glistens
against the fretboard as my guitar
glances back at me from
the corner of the room –
I’m not much of a musician,
but I’ve had more success with music
and certainly made more money
than I ever will penning poems,
but these days the only ones
that’ll hear me strumming strings
are my neighbours, or flatmates
and I like it like that –
as a way to unwind from the day
and the madness outside on the
blood and piss stained streets
before I stare at the blinking cursor,
and at that I then move the slide over
the fretboard as the guitar sounds
like a distant howl in a moonlit forest,
a rhythmic lapping
of waves against the shore
and then a traffic accident at rush hour
as I hit the wrong note –
I consider adding some words to the song
thinking back to one beautiful mess,
before everything was said
and smile as I find some different to play,
knowing that some songs
like memories
are better off without the words.
‘Beware the deadly under-dose’
said Marty Matz
and he’s right, of course,
he would also constantly beg
and borrow cash and
wouldn’t think too much
about spending $50:00
on a bolognaise sauce
or buying a busy bar a
round of drinks with the
money he borrowed:
Marty had a taste for
opium and brandy,
he was charming and
captivating and funny
and intelligent and
wrote astounding
poppy-drenched
surrealist poetry,
he poured wine over
Corso’s coffin
and read his poetry
to jazz;
he was beautiful
to some,
a bastard to others
but poet to all.
Rusty Truck 