6:30 – 12:10 the next day (or, a punk prayer)

(1)

i can’t explain
i just wanted to cry
and you wanted a cigarette.
go then
that’s when tears started
it gave me shivers
my whole body moved
to riot
revolt
revolution
we laugh because they are funny.
right?

(2)

later. the river looks so dark
and full.
leaping a little far into
distraction
from the rain
we talk about floods.
as the red light curls
with the gold
you’ve never seen it from this side.

(3)

only the water seems shiny
everything else has lost its luster
better when it wasn’t legal
better when it was free

(4)

i told you already that it was shit
i told you already that it was fine

(5)

once we’ve reached queen st
just on feet.
we close our eyes to the blaze
white light
right. this is a shopping mall
sliver woman with no vagina
advertises handbags
(i know cause i checked)
(you know cause i told you)
do the lights turn off?
do the manikins ever see the dark?
are they always bathed in white light
and does that make them angels
who is light like this for
at 3 in the morning.

(6)

at the last bar, they serve me
Gordon’s
but you’re the only one complaining.
we drank Tanqueray when it wasn’t legal
we’ve got better tastes
i know.
i know.

6:30 – 12:10 the next day (or, a punk prayer)

on seeing

on seeing, the ground did not immediately

fall,     away

on seeing, it remained still and green

and grass

sway

the sky remained ribbed and

picture

on seeing, the sky was so

blue with the

calm ache

of your your back

to me

of indifference

on seeing, boy you

stretch hands like

you once did on

my lap

you walk with weapons

on seeing, this does not

matter                    , to walk to

own hands

(your hands)

which lingered where they

shouldn’t

on seeing, everything is still

on seeing,     you walk

away from me,

the crime

scene.

and i sit, with the place where

it happened     , wishing

i could

like you

just simply,     walk away

on seeing,         i am the calm

blue ache,

of a body              , invaded.

on seeing

roadsidekillings

laying in the strip of grass
roadside
a body sunken
the corpse of a possum struck from the
sky, now flat and resting
settling in for the long sleep
it’s exciting when they change the ad posters
at the bus stops
in this suburb
makes you feel less
deserted
neighborhoods have a funny way of
doing that
they hold you so close and tight
you begin quickly
to feel isolated
nobody really lives here
they are all pretending
to be wives, to be husbands, to be daughters, to be sons, and dogs, and old couples across the street
when I pretend, i pretend to be dead

roadsidekillings