Well what can I write about the moon, now you got your footprints all over it.
What am I gonna say about the stars, when the bright ones were built to beam porn into your living room.
The vast ancient constellations obscured by your cheap fluorescence and fumes.
Tell me when should I write a romance, if I gotta sneak out of your room at 5am.
I try and write an epic and you're waiting for the ad break.
To take a piss and put the kettle on.
I could whisper the boughs softly sighing before a summer storm if you hadn't cut down all the trees.
How can I evoke this perfect fragrant bloom with you blowing up humans and shit.
What does it take to pluck your heartstrings, besides the rasp of pen on chequebook.
There are gods and heavens to beseech, but wouldn't you just call me a fanatic.
I try and write a tragedy and you reckon not enough people died.
What's the bodycount. How many Aussies.
If I gave you a happy ending, you'd point out that 51 per cent of marriages become divorces.
Well if my greatest weakness ain't statistical improbability.
I write about my cats but no, you're a dog person.
I sing of my dead, and you'd send me to a grief counsellor.
I try and make it rhyme, and you put me in the children's section.
Where nobody buys it.
Well it's you against the great, deep, sacred infinitude.
And my dream of something more.
If only you could shut me up.
Joseph | 14 Oct 2005