a fairly old poem...
Citizen
1.
I wouldn’t go to Queensland.
I am crazy for passing on the waves,
smacking prodigal high-rise.
My veiled intolerance seats you like a headline.
All the same, I bunch my vagabond spores
when you eat the food my parents left.
My friends leave. They are, once again,
fat from the casual coup of a group.
2.
Do not try & stocktake
my pantry of lollies. Sunscreen,
icing my sister on the beach,
loaded with the clay memories of a kiln.
How my art teacher would shove us all in.
I am smoking from the balcony.
The house holds a reunion of understudy noises.
Cigarettes give us a chance;
a door ajar creaks like fame,
& trees are elbow agents of wind.
There are drunk boys down on the road,
fluent as trolleys.
I employ pop music & watch from dark.
The house is so big.
It’s not as if I have returned.
|