Monday, March 31, 2008


It was like going into my office,
That Melbourne Central Mall.
Although I didn’t have my own desk,
Because sometimes other people would have taken it.
But I’d find a spot at the tables,
Plug in the old computer,
And sit down and get to work on the novel.
(usually after blasting Beck’s Fuckin’ with my Head)
I’d mastered the art of nomadic writing,
Anywhere, anytime, anyplace.
I could write more easily than I could sleep,
Which I figured was a good thing.
So I’d get comfortable in my chair,
Make sure my ass cheeks were just right,
And lean down into the keys,
Staring wildly at the screen,
Wondering what would come from it.
In a sick way,
The screen was like an altar I prayed to,
The keys some modern rosary
Which I ran my fingers along,
nervously and happily.
In the words were the answers,
To all the mysteries of this life.

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