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A couple of hours into a smoke of pot

 

A couple of hours into a smoke of pot

 

A couple of hours into a smoke of pot it starts to feed back & I sound like a bitch, a reedy cheap oboe whining away about this & that, do I ever shut up? The price I have to pay for hitting some cunts is so far 13 years of psych meds & indefinite & the compulsory adoption of self consciousness & self recrimination. Why do you think I drink so much? Anyone would struggle to be more introspective than me. That’s why I write, as a way of hitting back, saying I resist this prison sentence. A moment’s reprieve. & so I must constantly account for myself. This is a sign of the times, that we must sound ironic & surrender our primal being to ‘theory’. & so I talk incessantly like post graduates do, in our collared shirts & our hair cuts. Now I was reading the other day a mockery of the white adventurer as they’re called or as I call em: people. I’ve always clicked with people from other cultures, & found the Anglo-Celtic Australian foreign. I was born with a different charter. & whatever happened to ‘callings’ & prophecies. & mysticism & ‘voodoo’? Must I, if I wanna write, be a maidservant & research quantitative data & keep to ‘my own’? Fuck that I say. I wanna talk less & pause for self consciousness less. I don’t go along with literary theory. I find many writers hideously sedentary & suppressed. I’m a mad fucker. But I’m not cruel or on a power trip. I wanna fall in love again. In fact I think I already am. & she’s beautiful & mysterious & miles from reality. But I drive her mad, coz I talk so fuckin much & reveal too much.

 

 

Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2025.

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