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I was born in 1978
At the end of winter
And nobody came to the funeral
A west wind blew
For forty Days
And forty one nights
Scattering garbage
In a vast circle
In the centre of which
Was my life
I took an old fashioned straight
Razor, and made 99 cuts
On the inside of my arm
All in a line
Pretty like soldiers
Weeping blood
Like wine
I dug up the grave
Of my oldest ancestor
And took the same knife
Cut the corners up from their mouth
Oh, a Chelsea smile
Where would we be
In this world of ours
Without a sense of humour
My arm never scars
No one can see
All of the marks
That show where I'm from
The pain is inside
Maybe One Day
I'll get better
__________________
"Do not tell lies, and do not do what you hate,
for all things are plain in the sight of Heaven. For nothing
hidden will not become manifest, and nothing covered will remain
without being uncovered."
The Gospel of Thomas
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