"the rain it is yellow, th street it is grey
just where I am I can't say
once had a home, well didn't we all?
I'm on my way to th malnutrition ball."
from malnutrition ball
by Eric Beach
It was riveting theatre, like you were right there with him, discovering each poem as it came out of his pocket. You never knew what he was going to find. A blues poem, a dialogue poem, a monologue. As he finished reading each poem, he'd discard it, like a tree losing its leaves. By the time he'd finished, he was up to his ankles in paper.
When it came to writing poetry, Eric was one of the best. Not that it paid the rent. Being the best at something in Australia didn't mean you could make a living out of it.
In the early days, Eric survived on a diet of toast, sardines, advocados and dim sims in black sauce. He also drank a lot of beer. Eric's drinking bouts were infamous. A lot of his poems were about drinking in pubs. Poems about guys who'd been stabbed in the gents' cos they'd played the jukebox while the female singer sang. He had a great ear for the way people spoke, especially drunks and crazies.
call me crazy, call me mad
lock me up I must be bad
ask me questions tap my knee
give me pills & turn th key
they don't know what I'm about
th doctors have to let me out
who ?
me ?
i'm the man who talks to trees
from I'm the man who talks to trees
by Eric Beach
Sometimes you'd think he wasn't paying any attention, that the booze had gotten to him so bad he couldn't possible be aware of what was going on, but then two or three weeks later he'd come out with a poem and it was all there - the voices, the gestures, the images - right there on the page, exactly as you remembered it.
