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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=477056" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>You Don't Need To Tell Me You Don't Care</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=477056" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">You don’t need to tell me you don’t care, not caring <br>	is an environmental condition since humans became <br>		too dangerous to trust their own minds as the world, <br>let themselves be morning doves in the phoenix-fire of the sumac, <br>	or a light within a light like a planet in the dusk, <br>		the pink lilac of Mercury, the flashing white <br>gardenia of Venus. Killing only lets you be <br>	one thing else <br>		after you’ve deleted all the rest. Not caring <br>is the shape of a final heart, the rose recast by the minerals <br>	as stone, cell by cell, nest by nest, petrified <br>		by the cuckoo whose young shoulder the eggs of its host out <br>like refugees that take over the government <br>	that gives them shelter. Not caring<br>		is an ancient battlefield in the morning <br>where crows and old women, idiots, wretches, dogs <br>	plunder the dead lying like islands in the mist, <br>		a cemetery of maggots that froze before <br>they could finish eating the horse. Not caring <br>	is deciding to live without punctuation<br>		because everywhere you went something got in your way<br>like crosswalks or streetlights, your desire for precious metals, <br>	to drink the silver pure, frustrated everywhere<br>		by the corroded goblets and encrustations <br>of people who smiled like ores and tons of granite. Not caring, <br>	is a leftover of porous slag and a gaping quarry, <br>		and the gifts of not caring are always accidental <br>and come wrapped in the skins of old enemies, a relic of fangs <br>	that fell out like the phases of the moon<br>		when the new ones with their upgraded toxins appeared.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=477056" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">You don’t have to tell me you don’t care, <br>	I’ve lived under glaciers long enough to know <br>		the knives of the small arctics that plunge through the heart <br>like kingfishers never cry; I know <br>	the striations of stone eyes<br>		that leave their runic watermarks<br> like scars and coats of arms on a shield, how <br>	the polar caps can descend down over a skull<br>		for thousands of years and the people revert to hides. <br>Not caring is a moth-eaten charter <br>	of inalienable human blights; <br>		 chained like a telephone book to the left side <br>of a junkie Medusa that sold Pegasus to a riding academy <br>	for the last hit to take off her head<br>		long before Perseus showed up like a rehab centre.<br>Not caring is a way of saying <br>	the world has let you down like an elopement <br>		you once waited for all night at a window<br>when windows were made of water, <br>	and it was an eclipse of everything you loved, <br>		not the moon with its ladder<br>that came for you, the world, a foot in the door<br>	of the opening lotus. The scarlet runner <br>		of the iron in your blood <br>turned to rebar in cement to reinforce<br>	the dead meteor of the foundation stone <br>		that crashed through your celestial ceiling <br>as if God had personally thrown a rock at you<br>	and killed your peacock in an avalanche of eyes.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=477056" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">		Here’s a bit of not caring, here’s <br>the splinter of a black dwarf <br>	that will add a little gravity to your requiem: boo hoo.<br>		But who could mean it; who so foolish, <br>watching your blood-drenched weathervane <br>	beating wingless in the air, the harbinger <br>		of a past catastrophe, to foul the summer wind<br>that runs schools of stars like fish into the nets<br>	of the auroral curtains gusting across the night sky <br>with a blizzard of vindictive spiders? <br>Everywhere the abdomens and sulphurous bouquets<br>	of burnt match-heads. A still-life with webs.<br>		The mummifed embryo of an aborted afterlife<br>and an umbilical cord undone<br>	like a shoelace in a coffin. Not caring <br>		is a black hole with an event horizon <br>that is a one-way threshold, the edge of the flat earth, <br>	the useless wing of a collapsed dimension, <br>		a climacteric of cannibals.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=477056" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">You don’t have to tell me you don’t care; <br>	turn the rock of the world over in most, <br>		shine a light in the corners between <br>the rafters in the damp basement, and you’ll see <br>	a Nazi who wears black, kid leather gloves and breezy colognes<br>		when he mutilates, Aryan bird wheels of destruction <br>frozen like galaxies and desecrated flowers in metal<br>	arranged logically on the iconic desktop <br>		of his universally translatable uniform, and this <br>is a man who doesn’t care, and this is a long, black, centipede; <br>	and you’ll see his aspiring counterpart, a soldier <br>		closer to home, a Chilean carabinero, <br>a mighty man with a can of gasoline and a condom <br>	and a brutalized woman from the university<br>		he rapes and burns at the side of the road back to his family, <br>the irisless eyes of two periods for proof he has fangs <br>	and knows how to use his glands and organ <br>like a sun-tanned mamba in shades; and this <br>is a man who doesn’t care, and this, his machismo aside, <br>	is a red army ant washing the general’s dirty underwear <br>		like nettles in formic acid as he boils to be someone.<br>And over there, with headphones on, saline drips pumping <br>psychotic punk hormones through his neuronic circuitry<br>like flame-throwers in an air-conditioned ideology <br>that’s convinced it’s a tank in the deserts of Iraq, <br>	is the boy next door who’s just made burgers and fries <br>		of a five thousand year old Arab village<br>immolated like the villain of a video-game, all in the name <br>	of a democratic republic that injects its mutable eggs<br>		into the body of the living host<br>they will liberate, imperialize, and devour, and this<br>	is a man who doesn’t care, a large, black wasp<br>		trying to win the tiger stripes of a killer bee.<br>And there where the rat died dehydrated by an industrial poison, <br>	if you look closely, beneath the sleek, moist pelt, <br>		that puts a new spin on infestation, you’ll see<br>a tiny thing that calls itself a multinational corporation, <br>	no bigger than a comma with a decimal head, <br>		a reflex of life with the pituatary glands of a giant <br>who claims to own the rain in Bolivia, the arm pits <br>	of western Africa, the people of Belize, <br>		the grain belt of southern Saskatchewan and Alberta, <br>food, medicine, animals, diseases, fossils, oil, minerals, ore, genes<br>	and the child labour of millions anywhere<br>		 there’s a dumpster with a constitution<br>that can’t borrow enough from the swine at the trough to eat; and this<br>	is a legally verifiable person who doesn’t care, not a man, <br>		but a maggot that lives in the nose <br>of the living and the dead like a merger in the boardroom<br>	of a wounded world where everything is either <br>		custard or pus. You don’t have to tell me you don’t care. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=477056" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">You didn’t care in Armenia, Dachau, Palestine, Sabra <br>	and Shatila, Cambodia, Chile, Tienanmin Square, Kent State, Watts, <br>	 	Wounded Knee, Algeria, Vietnam, South Africa, Manchuria, Tibet, <br> Siberia, El Salvador, Belfast, Uganda, Argentina, Sudan and the Balkans, <br>	and you don’t care now that there are children <br>		with hep-C and aids who sell their bodies <br>like golden chariots in the sewer to support a habit <br>	they learned on lullaby knees like a crutch or a church. <br>		You don’t have to tell me you don’t care; <br>I can see the homeless everywhere treated like the broken glass<br>	of an emergency someone eventually pulled <br>		as a messed-up prank on the moon; <br>and the afflicted, the lonely, the addicted, the dispossessed and the aggrieved<br>	hoping to leak out of what was crushed like wine<br>		as the last paint rag of hope to staunch the wound<br>unspools like a rainbow on an oilslick<br>	and agrees against the colour of their own eyes<br>		that the best of dreams is just <br>a momentary refraction of black; <br>	 but you don’t have to tell me you don’t care, <br>		I can hear the shriek of your non-existence <br>unplugging the tree from the fruit, the sun from the sky, <br> the star from the vine, the river from the sea everywhere <br>	until all that’s left to excavate is a grave in the air <br>for the blown lightbulb that can’t weld back <br>	 the merest filament of its own severed lifelines.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a></strong></div>