FathomOnline

 

 Fathom 1984

Cover

 

Inside Cover

 

Poetry

Babila Mutia
Margaret Snyder (3)
Lex Gigeroff
Nicola Young
Paul Deagle (2)
Philip Graves
Sean Bedell (3)
Lynn Courtney
Amy R. McEwan
Sara Davina
John Mallon
H.M.
Patricia Boyle
dixie MacDonald (2)
Andrew Little (3)
Sophie Dessureault (2)
James Cranton
Christopher Aucoin
David Swick (2)

Prose

Giles Osborne

Artwork

Jane Mothersell

Extras

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Lex Gigeroff

 

 

The Last Hippie Turns to God
For K.K.

     i moved into the country and bought a roll of chicken wire
and ditched the nasty villagers with their pitchforks, guns and fire,
i watched friends of mine grin goodbye as i spiralled down the drain
and i saw them shake a finger at the fungus on my brain
as i bellowed to the great wide world, and roared out my soul
from the top of yonder mountain, from the bottom of this hole
for the single magic “answer” to rise out of its shell
and show me the way of livin’, that’ll lead men from this hell,
but things just don’t work out that way; they hardly ever work out right,
and my voice kept gettin’ louder like a freight train in the night.

     poetic justice tells us that the silent dream goes wrong
the moment that you open up to sing your ancient song,
for the song itself is tricky, and the singin’ takes its toll
and all those years of hollerin’ have emptied out my soul,
folks just never seemed to hear me, much less anything at all
‘cept the gossip of the neighbours, and the corporate waterfall,
now my pamphlets they don’t publish, my poems they don’t read
my novel’s in the compost and it’s on its way to seed,
and i just can’t get excited at the threat of nuclear war
and i no longer get irate ‘n all when wheat germ prices soar,
the potatoes didn’t make it, the goats and chickens died,
the girl that i got pregnant went and joined the other side,
my daddy he disowned me, mama couldn’t speak for tears
they ain’t never gon’ forgive me for screwin’ up their golden years.
all these and a dozen others, most everything went wrong
the second that i opened up and sang my mighty song.

     i’ve been at the lake at noontime, a fishin’ pole in my hand,
i’ve been at the river at nightfall, lookin’ across the land,
i’ve been on the beach at midnight. high on life and love and grass,
but all i got was lonely; a little sand up my ass.

     they call my life a failure; i call it half and half
between a worn-out postcard and a yellowed photograph,
counting on the millennium and the biggest cosmic bang
noodling on my guitar in a state of Strum and Twang;
i lost my sense of humour, and my wild woolly ways,
and life just got tougher when i dropped that jar of mayonnaise.

so i took a big long breath, and lay down on my side
and listened to the night-time and the voices in the tide
and for one electric instant i was freed from the drainin’ doubt
that a-preachin’ and a-screechin’ was what my life was all about,
for the folks out there can listen, but they just don’t seem to care
and my call was never answered, ‘til i turned my thoughts to prayer.

 

last updated August 17, 2007 | © 2007 Fathom Publishing
poetry, prose, and artwork © individual authours | website created by Alana Paul