REJECTION
She’s not a cup
a $10 note
a laundry ticket
a pair of sneakers
a ibis
a river at sunset
a mouse in a
wheel
a crystal inside a
stone
a song
a poem,
but I think
of
her
now,
& wish she was here:
even though she
has been
so cruel:
I’ll pour a drink
on her
& another
& another
& another
& put on some
clothes &
go to a
strip club
drink some more
then back to
a bar:
trying to forget
a girl in
Gosford in
Kings Cross
on a January
Saturday
night.
THEN APART
Its just that my eyes
have invisible holes
& thousands of tiny
amicable insects are
trying to flee from
the doleful thoughts
of my mind
that
the feet have grown
knowing wings & keep
attempting to lift off
though nature doesn’t
want any part of it
that
the ears are now
acoustically engineered
auditoriums with a
handful of notes
endlessly sustaining
without a single change
in volume
that
the hands still hold
onto her with a
limitless grasp like
a purpose built
machine
& no matter what
I tell them:
they refuse to let go.
GRIEVING FOR HER
Assembly lines of
emptiness; pumping
then out by the
truckload. the clock
will soon strike the
hour, when the bells
ring I will know the
time. my vices are
yours too; does that
mean we are compatible?
sitting in a dark small
room waiting for the light
to come. seagulls and
engines sounding in the
distance. yet the sound
I wish to hear is gone.
and will never return.
Brenton Booth is a 33-year old writer of poetry and prose. He resides in Sydney, Australia. If you would like to read some of his other stuff. He has work on, or soon to be on 3:AM, Zygote in My Coffee, Red Fez, Underground Voices, Shot Glass Journal, CitiZens for Decent Literature, Mad Swirl, Camel Saloon and Gutter Eloquence
No comments:
Post a Comment