January 31, 2015 by Wayne.
27: I am nothing.
We are the peeling expiry labels on
attractiveness and relationships.
You are words, cards, ingratitude,
squared shots and turquoise strands
The stream of life that
flows within you
will cough against loose rocks,
spin and spill in ropey lashes,
channel to wheat and meat.
You can’t live for ever
on the cult of self
But you can try.
Fine, I’ll be nicer.
I’ll draw clothes on projected beliefs.
I’ll swim deep with you, your bee-stung chest
and hips dissolving into branches
Make plans to last and not to blame
Talk of developments, zones of resistance
How to please the boss of your boss
and purge ennui from fresh-faces
We can buy books about it too
go for talks in the bar above – tables
parted and stacked,
ties and easy-iron shirts sweating, talking,
swapping slices of embossed paper –
flick through photos of reclaimed furniture
sold by final year students who are
beginning to think
about being nicer too.