gingatao

Talking to the ghosts.

He holds his mittened hands over the burning drum. Sense of place as a function of uniqueness of voice, do I have an accent? I like it when they stumble down this dead end looking for Australian sentences and as any strangler of the lungsandwitch language will tell you a big part of the train ride is looking for creating discovering A VOICE! he yells into the darkness of the alley scattering the rats then whispers quoting Squires, the only thing spellcheckers and grammar machines ever spelled was the death of style.

‘I have known dogs with more style than most humans,’ says the ghost of Bukowhiskey to him. Yeah well, you and Rimbaud, they might love your pottery but they ain’t gonna invite you in for dinner and meet the children are they,  hitching his trousers and spitting into the dying fire.

My fellow bums, he addresses the empty alley, it is the very fact that we offend their sense of propriety that justifies our existence. Whilst the hypocrite boojwah will always accept one or two of us into their sanitised galleries to proove their cool, we must never forget that it is their noses which decide their morality. Nothing marks you as a lesser being more than the stench of life.  I’m cold, throw another piano on that fire.

(This piece has been podcasted here. (1 min 20 secs))