10. Not many stars shine through the night haze of India, but the ones that do get all the eyes

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She sweeps the dust from the street with a broom of straw whilst the blues persevere through the haze,

the sun like a blanket, pulling the fluid from my flesh.  

I sit on a balcony, sipping coffee, beer, cigars.

The apartment is green with the remnants of Portugal,

I smile to pink flowers across the road, because they smiled to me first.

Pigeons sit beside me,

they don’t move when I ask because they don’t speak English.

What is move in Hindi?

What is move in Telugu?

Oh who cares, they can stay there.

The dogs bark, the passing men smile, the piano plays itself and

today I love the world because it loves me.

I peak through the brains of the bottle and see God at the bottom, he isn’t in the form of any god manifested yet, so he has no reputation.

“Who are you?” I ask,

he doesn’t reply. All that omnipotence and still shy.

The art made sits their waiting without insecurity and I felt no desire to decipher it.

Could it be, finally, art needs more from I, than I from art?

If so, gladly my wisest friend.

I hum to vibrate the blood from the bruises of blows long gone. To convince the wounded the lesson is learnt, let’s let go.

Two Indian men speak across the road,

“You see that tubby cunt over there on the green balcony smoking cigars and drinking long necks listening to great music?”

“Yeah”

“He is a famous artist from Australia”

“No he isn’t”

“He gave me 500R to say that”

“How sad”

“Yeah”.

It’s hard to appreciate talent before death adds to their legend. The internal commitment to something that could destroy itself with breathing is a role of the dice. but I'm telling you now, Dope Lemon are as good as it gets.

They play to the colours in the heat and I think to myself, is religion, discipline and worship, only for those who cannot own the depths of their despair?

And why artists rarely fall on the pointy end of an idol is because they can create with it?

Like an alchemist in the deserts of the middle east. Writing everything into gold. Or is it exactly that?

What's ash and charcoal have to differ, if you smear the remnants of a past that died in flames to make something pretty?

One thing my pen can write with conviction. This beautiful crazy ego and 20gram immortal soul both stand in unison in the disgruntlement towards a preacher.

I do feel bad when I lure a woman in with the suave shivering of my literacy. Like Ghandi fucking women, or your local priest fondling the altar boy. But God, why did you give them this inclination?

Yes, my ego possesses an internal flame, my soul shows its presence in the colours that inundate my pupils, but these beautiful Mules that follow the carrot to their own demise…

NO!

My virtue remains strong enough to give you more than what you want. What do you need?

The same as the dough; a flame to help you rise. Let those air holes of nothing shift you towards the stars.

You, my beautiful queen, are so much more than the jewels on your crown. Throw them to the hungry. The promise land may be nothing but the sand that holds the tall towers in Dubai, but so are we. So trust me with the same caution you trust any preacher. Trust me with the same feeble stance I trust myself. I want for you, the same as I want for me in this cycle of Savannah, and that’s the best of what we got.

I walk to the pearly gates after trying to light a cigar with a toaster,

“Bit excessive don’t ya think?” I ask,

“Too inquisitive” said the bouncer, and hurled me back to earth.

I smoke my Cigar and smile. I love loopholes. I love you, thy neighbour.

Angels followed me home. They asked me why I'm glowing so good; I told them it’s because I gave up the likelihood.

So, you, my friend, my reader;

Do what you're doing. Send that poetic sext. Smoke that Cigar. Drink that beer. Walk the walk. Dance like a toddler. Quit your job. Message your ex. The devil works with guilt, the heavy emotions of the past. Bite the peach and let the juice flow down your chin into your heart. Let go, you want nothing but what's best for the world and a present smile will aid it. When the coconut falls from the tree it has nowhere to return. Give them your image, let them draw on it. It’s a historical piece of irrelevance. Give them the stories that dance with emotion; So gullible.

Our master must be so funny, I can’t stop laughing with him. My sides split and my guts explode into the night sky. My eyes so empty, the sun sits in them, admiring one another.

The moon; my beautiful feminine moon hangs with grace. Such is life and what an honour to endure this suffering with you. The irony and wit.

The charismatic wind paints my skin with coolness like the ginger cat. Graceful like the tiny birds that sit on the powerlines with so much to say and no words to ruin the bliss.

I interpret you, world, nature, my fellow animals. Even when the invisible forces bite my skin, I see it as love; I am grateful to be involved.

In all I know, in all I don’t, difference minimal; I let go of everything but the pen and the pulse of the universe. The pulsating vigour. God is dead and I am his legacy. Enjoy me because I enjoy you. See yourself in the glow of my ever-changing eyes. Let’s drown in indulgence, lets crystalise in the swim. The sharks would eat me, but I offer too much joy. Dolphin and man alike, killer whale and seal. The rhythm has us all. The cadence of the shared heartbeat.

Writing what will still be read in 300 years, I can feel the presence of their eyes. Who are you to deny? We will all be gone by then, our immortal souls still enduring the progression we create. Filling the gaps with legend. Me; so much better, so much worse.

I know Van Gogh didn’t go mad. He just felt all of you observing his creations. The greatest artist to ever share this world with us, beneath the same stars.

Oh, here he is now…

Hello Van,

English?

No?

Okay.

“I love you” I say with my hair,

he smiles,

paints me;

his best work yet.

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