When I was a boy I was a boy. They said I was innocent! They lied! And then they tortured me with bad ideas. In my house, on Misery Mountain. The sun streaming through and into the bedroom like ethereal fire. And where were you? You were there, with me. You drank what I drank. You burned as I burned. The shadows lengthened as I lengthened and the voices of bad ideas spoke to you as they spoke to me and the bus arrived to take us to school. And there you were, little boy lost, with your scabbed knee and long socks. You were in your uniform and so was I. The sun could see us through the filthy window. The bus rattled and heaved its way around the mountain. A jacaranda tree let its purple drop. You saw it, you were there. You were the tree. You were the purple droppings. You were the throbbing heart of little birds arrested in mid flight as the sun rolled over head and the cold mountain air turned to steam when you let it out. Why didn’t you help me? You knew what we were going through. Why didn’t you save us both? You said to me, in the middle of some long October night, ’There’s nothing here but the rotting smell of melancholy.’ I rolled my eyes at you. You let me down so many times. The summer rolled through, the nights went on and on. Now you’re dead. And I don’t miss you, I just wish you’d come back.
Shake and Bake of eternal life.