New verse by writer and singer, Dominic Hoey.
I’d like to make a toast
to the sound man for making me louder than my detractors
to the bar tenders, those unsung heroes of hospo, serving up sweet amnesia
to the hecklers, the physical manifestation of the voices in my head, shut -the fuck- up
to the people feeding and cleaning the city on 15 hour shifts, for 15 an hour dreaming of their 15 minutes.
to the solo parents who get baby sitters and pay to listen to me making origami flowers from my hang ups and public secrets
to the disabled and chronically ill who have to swallow a bottle of pills just to face the day with a sexy grimace
to the activists sacrificing safety and sanity, throwing themselves beneath the wheels
to the men and women spending tonight in a locked doorway
to the musicians, artists, photographers, dancers, moneys bastard children painting this short life with beautiful disasters
to person on the door, explaining the basic principles of capitalism to drunk fuckwits who think that what I do is worth less than the beer they just pissed all over themselves
to the poets in the audience muttering “this isn’t fucking poetry” I invite you, to come do my writing course
to anyone who refused the victim moniker and seized the day by its fucking throat
to those with real jobs and real houses and real children and real responsibilities that someone would notice if you didn’t fulfil, your real life makes me simultaneously jealous and suicidal
to everyone lost in the justice system, healthcare system, welfare system a thousand different forms and appointments just to get a little help and assistance
to all those with a mind they can’t trust or a heart that don’t sing
this drinks is for you
To hear Toast performed, click here.
The Spinoff Weekly compiles the best stories of the week – an essential guide to modern life in New Zealand, emailed out on Monday evenings.