"Poems are gay and the nightlife is wild"
Holy Holy Holy!!!
Holy Holy Holy!!!
Holy the golden faggot. Holy his septum piercing. Holy the bleached white anus. And holy the man in chains.
Holy Holy Holy!!!
Holiness always is; but isn't always apparent. What’s not holy then? The world is holy! This moment is holy - and so was the last!
Poems are gay and the nightlife is wild and i need to find my keys first just hang on one minute and then i’ll be able to - Holy is the eye of the flower!!! Holy is the eyeball and holy is the kneecap, you see, for EVERYTHING is holy and the man is holy and the woman is holy and the next person - they're holy as well - and your skin and your touch and my fear and this feeling it’s God filled God stricken God forsaken holiness hiding underneath at least.
Whats real? and going on below? Whats holy when the world's so unholy?!
Hey little boy you're a gay looking boy, bleach blonde faggot ass hole raw; holy is the secret yearning!!! Holy are the hidden truths and blessed is the sad kid - uncertain. Unsure.
Blessed is Poof Doof and crystal meth and the catholic church and blessed is the feeling where you feel like dancing! Blessed is the watermelon and the indoor sparrow AND BLESSED IS THE MAN WHOSE WHOLE BODY SCREAMS!!!
Blessed is the damned hope that you'll fit in to the square hole even when your spirit cries:
"im not a square shape! I’m not a square shape! i’m not a square shape!"
i want to be like the square ones, the normal guys, the men in suits and richie rich! I wanna be Bob Dylan! I wanna be Brett Whiteley! i wanna be Michael Jackson! i wanna be someone else! It’s too hard to be me because i’m not what you're wanting.
You can’t tell but i know inside that i’m something else, i’m disenfranchised from you, i’m a whole 'nother thing entirely
i’m a gay guy! i wanna vogue! i wanna dance the night away! i wanna snort amyl and drink piss and i wanna fit in too!!!
Get out of my way - here's my agenda! Get out of my way - here's my agenda! Get out of my way - here's my agenda!
Holy like a severed limb or an angels tear or a mundane morning, vain like fruit salad, like a haze. Daze. Maze. Whatever.
Gather your shit and move across town. Move further than that. Go somewhere where no one knows your name yet, change it if you have to! Cities are good for "different people", for the queers and the weird kids; for limp wrists and lisps; cities are hubs for us to gather!
I came cold breasted and crying and you held me like a baby that could not fall asleep and my legs like springs my whole being wants to announce this feeling of discord!!
Lord sang to me in my waking hours – this is what she sang:
"You come from far away with pictures in your eyes - of coffee shops and morning streets and the blue and silent sunrise, but night is our cathedral where we recognise the signs, we strangers know each other now as part of the whole design!"
Holy is the Lord's word. Yes. Holy is the Ginsberg poem and perfect timing and divine rendezvous and the Suzanne Vega song.
Mercy! Holy! Angel! Homo!
These golden fruits say life is worth living and sometimes pain's syrup resembles love's syrup and seven nearly eight billion people means that you're not alone.
Sam Mather (he/him) is a Melbourne based artist who doesn't care for small talk or tiptoeing around the shit going down. Sam's background is in visual arts writing, having studied fine arts at Monash University and Professional Writing and Editing at RMIT. Sam believes that there's nothing more satisfying than expressing yourself in a way that resonates with who you are.