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“It’s crazy out there!”

 

“It’s crazy out there!”

 (after Paul Donnelly)


I’m tired of & from performativeness –

The sound of a car starting

 

--

 

City livin

 

I’m sick of the way I speak

I’m sick of my words

Conversation is impossible at the moment

It all sounds tinny

I’m sick of topics

I’m sick of ‘being clever’

I feel counterfeit

But silence eludes me

The pull of the people

I feel I should be quiet

It would be good for me

But I’m unable to

The Celtic knot goes on & on & on

In the Angle

As Roy Harper sang

I’m “flat broke & beserk”

Mental illness & money mate!

Even in my poems

I’m always talking TO someone

I’m always talking to myself

My Sabbath overwhelms me

I can’t stop/rest

All I hear is people –

City living

Yeah I GET IT:

BREATHE. MEDITATION. etcetera

Still feels like an action

This man needs

Needs the love of a woman

It’s not meant to be this lonely

Questions, Basho

 

?

 

 

I write…

On my attempted Sabbath

I guess at least it’s dark

But I can’t rest

It just becomes a different kind of work

Writing’s the only thing that makes sense,

Moses.

The knot appears endless

Man the Irish soul in me

Is givin me the shits

Still,

I guess shisha is a stimulant

As was that big pot of tea

As Freddy Mercury put it

“I want to break free”

But everywhere lies concrete, glass & steel

& the madding fuckin crowd

I love you guys

But I’m in mourning from my late brother

& I’m tryin to act like I’m ok

To fit in with your commercial interests

The one I love from afar, oh apparition

Would you please take my pain away?

 

--

 

I’m surrounded by cerebral people

My work is cerebral

With a bitta heart

I could do with thing

 

--

 

Slowing down

Rolling around on the ground with you

But ur so far away

I think Dante

Made a lot more sense than the philosophers

Without love

What an empty sterile life

So many of my friends

Are self harmers & suicidal

& relativize it & say

“so’s everyone”

The hermeneutics of suspicion

Won’t lay with me in MY bed!

The more you think

The more you stink

--

 

Thank God for the soldier’s joint

That’s right kids

Hold onto your roaches

Hegel fuck off!

I’m not dialecticaling

Opine bish

Opine bish

As David Briggs’ mantra

“the more you THINK

The more you STINK”

Which I would think you might translate as

“endless dialectical is lame ass!

Thank God this poem’s wrist slashing

Was interrupted by spliff!

But yeah, big brother’s dying sucks!

& Tim Hemensley’s so right about

“the supernova that never quits!”

The weaving

The loom

& thread & needle craft coming up to Christmas

It’s a panic being poor

No sooner am I paid than it’s gone

I’m not a humble hobbit

I’m a sic kunt

Who likes to go out on the town

If just for a shisha & tea

As often as a drink

 

It’s conceivable that in a generation

This poetry will become incomprehensible

So outnumbered are poets

By content creators

In a language that changes so rapidly

How did ‘literally’ become ‘figuratively’

In not too much time

I might be better off making nonsense noises & interesting sounds

For Look!

The Canon.

The guardians think they represent Poetry

They might as well represent a stuffed pig

Maybe I’ll edit the next book ‘high’

Or is that too ‘devil may care’? +

But despite it all

I feel the love everywhere

As ragged & damaged & kinky as its angels are

I’m just in a lot of pain

So I’m grateful

I really am

To the lot of you fuckers

I feel it beyond words

That’s right Descartians

Objective consensus reality

I’m sick of crazy fuckers

& figuratively you could say

That ‘everybody’s crazy’

But literally it’s only the critically mentally ill who are crazy

Some people have real jobs

Like nursing & teaching

Yunno, thinkin of someone other than yourself!

You’re not just ‘the centre of the universe’

You’re ‘all materiality!’

Narcissists: Fuck you my dears!” xx

 

But yeah today feels

Performative,

An effort.

Is the former just a new way of saying the latter?

& words don’t exist

 

--

 

The conscious mind doesn’t exist

’less in concentrated action

 

--

 

All is nature

You know: plants & shit

Not poetry that sounds unaffected

 

--

 

I don’t wanna understand ‘you’

I want us to go beyond

The personal

& know country

 

--

 

Telepathy

 

 

 

Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2025.

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