The above illustration was created by an incredible Melbourne based artist by the name of Beck Wheeler. It was based on my poem, 'Dear Elliott, written on the death of American singer-songwriter Elliott Smith.
Beck has been doing works based on my poems for about a year now, after we randomly met each other through MySpace.
This Tuesday night, the 4th March, an exhibition of Beck's work will be opening at the Uber Gallery. The work above will be part of the exhibition, amongst many other wonderful pieces.
I've also been asked to read my poem Dear Elliott at the opening.
Uber Gallery is at 52 Fitzroy Street, St Kilda.
'Hey, Hey, Which Way?' opens on Tuesday the 4th March at 6:30pm.
The exhibition runs until the 30th March.
Here is the original poem.
Dear Elliot
Elliot Smith, you stabbed yourself in the heart today.
I heard the moan and the sharp exhale of breath and because a sound that big can't just be contained in the now, it echoed far into the future and the past.
This gave me time to catch the first flight to Los Angeles,
at LAX airport I bribed a baggage handler for your address,
he couldn't speak because every time he opened his mouth,
birds flew out,
this only happens,
he wrote on my arm,
when I wake up needing nothing.
and he wrote your address there too with feathers poking from the corners of his mouth.
As I was running up your street,
I heard you moan again and I knew this was a repeat.
I stood outside with your address dripping down my arm and I watched the sound of dying ripple out of the house in waves, flowing forward to the past and back to the future.
In your apartment,
I stood at the foot of your bed and I tried to remind myself,
that crying near the dying is like placing their leaking little row boat into a raging storm.
So I started singing one of your songs instead but you opened your eyes and told me to shut the fuck up because listening to me sing was just like dying all over again.
I sat on the bed feeling awkward,
looking everywhere else in the room except at the knife.
You said 'do me a solid will you? I don't need this anymore' and you looked down towards your chest.
I drew the knife out like some kind of indy rock Excalibur.
I stared at the blade and in the blood still clinging, I saw hundreds of tiny letters swimming around.
An alphabet tomato soup.
"What are these?" I said.
"Unwritten songs," you told me. "But they'll fade away soon. They hate the light. I did too, until I died, now light is all there is."
And you flung your hand forward as if the room was full of it.
As if the room was all there is.
"I caught a plane to stop you."
"Why?' you said.
"Because when I listen to you sing all the walls in my house become transparent."
You laughed and said "that's why I'm here, and you trying to stop it is like stabbing a river to stop it from flooding."
Then you started to sing, the walls turned transparent and I saw your girlfriend opening the door before she arrived.
She entered the room, the film ran backwards, the knife returned to your chest, I opened my mouth and the room filled with birds.