Music by Author
  Art by Michael Whalen

Art © 2006 Michael Whalen
The Faceless Walk

Distressed over an old wet cupboard at the end of the yard she kicked hard at the garden, harming the herbs and mashing petals into the cement. I almost found myself in the place of the old authors, sitting in the afternoon on the verandah, but then, my methods differ vastly and I don't smell of lavender. The faceless walk out from behind my eyes, sometimes the shadow of the pen writes different words, wiser anecdotes with more subtle rhymes.

And the ruined self, the one with tailored sails, wrecks itself in the harbour.

Dear Brother
Art © 2006 Michael Whalen

Hope this finds you well. Myself, not particularly. It would seem the 9 to 5 has sodomised my spirit, fucked it royally, with glee, on viagra. Only yesterday I found my little angel of inspiration (you know the one

I keep secreted) had suicided, perhaps weeks ago, her corpse rotting in my pocket. I awoke, torn from a dream in which I had stomped to death this boring frog from a telephone commercial, about 4am.

I have this feeling that all these medical forensic shows will kill a lot of people, perhaps subliminally. So here I sit, smoking a cigarette, test pattern on the television (can't find the remote) 4:15 in the morning,

thinking about the body with no organs and the

electronic revolution. I have developed an allergic reaction to these vestiges of authority, protocol,system, rules and regulation, control through fear

and intimidation: it's a race you know, a silent war with quiet weapons, hurricanes in the kitchen ripping up the laminate, newlyweds stockpiling tins, H5N1 in the headlines again.

Sometimes it is good to leave off, put on some old records, go over your early texts, notice that it's like an ugly jumper made from nice threads, not at all dissimilar to that voice coming out of Serge Gainsborough's head. Damn Brother! If only we could take down the bridge between us. You have to admit that the river beneath has calmed these last few years; we owe it to one another, lets get out the

weapons again, polish our insignia, let the dancing Nietzsche live.

Art © 2006 Michael Whalen
Dear Teacher

I thank you in advance for the opportunity you have offered. A long path we both walked, many times it was more than just thorns scratching our legs. I always appreciated you saying that I'd get there in the end. Well, now I've made it, enjoying a diet of red wine and turtle soup. I spoke at length with a famous poet this morning, we shared a joint. It is greener on the other side of the fence! I spent siesta in a hammock with your book. You quoted me, you never said! What a nice surprise seeing my sentence hanging there, in a jumble of your words, entwined like sex…

I sent you a picture of us lying down in an entrance, did you get it? Some of the students were filming a generic leftist documentary, you know the type, another critical analysis of an incorrect history, they have no living memory, they just read it with their abstract interpratives, the linguistically maladjusted: personally I have had enough, wrote you this letter, packed some stuff, and I am off. Will write you again.

Your friend.