Let us go then, Kurt and I,
leave Camberwell behind just like a sty,
to mimic the cask wine hipsters in a
city park
we’ll let loose another calamitous cry:
I’m drunk!
Distorted!
Distended!
Stumbling from the Smith,
my Cherubic features gone awry!
I am no saint,
my halo has fallen to my feet
and, clearly, I am only mortal meat
looking for loquacious ladies
suspect to my suspicious spell
(it’ll all be another poem to tell).
Chapel St shimmers incandescent
scintillation.
I’m in Lala Land!
With Grey Goose vodka, ice, and fresh
lime in hand
there are no cardigan scarf geriatrics,
no extra hot skim milk caps
served in a poor man’s skull,
no Indian word that means ‘slow death,’
only a sky we call down to us,
snort a star and see resplendent light.
Revs roar for me.
We’ll have another VB.
It tastes like tar gone to cool crystal,
but
I could not be anymore goddamn cheerful,
like a man trying to abuse sobriety,
and lose the same old memory,
I run my fingers through the fissures of
the sofa fabric,
then ineloquently across my gums,
and my grin, once manic, becomes suddenly
plastic.
Kurt is dolewave dancing!
Disenchanted, but drinking!
He’s Dick Diver grinding.
Or is it Melbourne shuffling?
Until some tattoo mask of sinking
spirals
stops the fast forward motion.
Kurt stares at me,
his face twitching commotion,
and, over everything, he bellows:
“Have you heard of the portly prince of
Prahran, Apollinaire?
Always assumes a Parisian air,
loves an obese obscenity
like a minstrel gently fucking a shark.
He’ll bring the clown car:
the means of our getaway
we’ll take with us to our horizon
—these stars taste terrific.
Did I tell you recently that I love you
man?”
He licks my cheekbone.
“Did you know her man?”
Kurt stays behind to seduce the sun.
Solo, I walk High St,
a pinched pint of balmy beer
all that bears witness to an idea
which brings you back in.
These weekends will not be the same.
I need to remember how to forget.
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