by Ben Kritikos
How is it possible that I went 30 years without being obsessed with Patti Smith?
This world is insane. Nothing makes sense, and maybe it shouldn’t. People kill each other, and do worse. Poetry is gone from our language, half-dead, imprisoned in books and open mic nights. Rock and roll is moribund merchandise used to drug the baby boomers. I can’t stand it. I’d go mad if it weren’t for the existence of something, some one who breathed fire and dug her heels into the fleshy undersides of city streets, poked at the open wound on the face of civilisation and cried out in a hoarse and primitive howl from the other side of the dark corridor of time and memory.
“We shall live again”, and it will be Easter when the clocks stop, time dies running, and everything is green, gold and answers to the touch.