The first line of my next poem was to be, ‘I’m an Open Source Hero, I’m the Big-Headed Zero,’ but it never happened. It was not to be. I tried to threaten the world into submission by waving my semiconscious automatisms at it. My robotic reflexes. Take that you bastard I said, only I didn’t really say it. But that’s what I meant, on an unconscious level. That was the gist. Get a load of my unconscious automatisms and see how you like that. Yeah – not so clever now, are you reality? That’s what I was unconsciously saying to reality, trying to put it in its place. Triumphantly, I did my little dance. The dance I always do. The little dance I do when I think that I have triumphed over reality. My little dance. Doing my little dance. My victory dance. Watch out, watch out! I’m going to shake my automatisms at you. Heh, heh, heh… Gonna wave my goddamn robotic reflexes at you, gonna vomit my stinking semi-digested somnambulisms all over you. Fuck yeah. How you gonna respond to that, huh? What are you gonna do now? That’s got you cornered, nowhere to turn to, nowhere else to go. See how you like those apples, I crow, jumping up and down whilst thumbing my nose. Doing my little dance. Capering about the place like one of Satan’s imps. Fuck you asshole. Only I’d got it all wrong of course – it was me that was cornered. It was me that had nowhere else to turn. I had cornered myself and now there was no way out. If you go down that road far enough you’ll run out of the one thing you really need, someone once told me, but I wasn’t listening. When do I ever listen? I’m too busy shaking my automatisms at people. You’ll run out of the one thing that really matters. Then you’ll be up a gum tree without a paddle! Go down that road and you’ll be sorry my friend. You’ll shed tears of scalding vinegar. Your spirit will dry up within you and you choke yourself on sawdust. You will be coughing up bits of yourself all over the place. Coughing up big wet globs of automatic behaviour as you go. Spitting them at people. Hawking them up. Vomiting them up. Making pathetic little grasping motions at life all the while. Making vestigial little clutching movements at the goodness. Doing your little dance, doing your little dance. Giving everyone the finger. ‘How you doing buddy’, says the voice in my head. ‘How’s that working out for you?’ I was an Open Source Hero but I’d run out of steam…
Art – Moebius. Taken from: The Art Of Moebius / iamag.co
