he didn’t want to know
find out
he’d walk into his grave detached
and be told everything after death
and realised how he wasted his own time
with the absence of information and burned roots
talked into non-existence
*
I don’t have a past he preached
his pores reeking of expensive wine
eulogies that sound like jokes
a bed made of alcohol
he wakes up with the monsters he ignored
and drowns them one by one
a grimace on his face
a lightness anchored in his burial ground body
the face and the body, yes, the mouth, the words that escape
never add up, never make sense
he sees everything and pretends that he’s free
*
yellow tongue blanket feather ladder window ashtray heartbeat
finger scissors door gust of wind rotten apple skin peel heave
gaunt sofa irreversible walk holding on stewing head of the table
eyes on me inwardly staggering here he comes nightgown winter threat
cancerous flowers cut out colours shades figurines shadows beauty beneath a tree
odourless cold air refugee little boy words too ominous scaffold walk alive chest of drawers
skin deep pantomime news recycle stirring earth and rain memories and mint
salt fermentation milk butter knife brew pit blackening soul gum sober at the door
shaving right angle hole car dough through body water recoiling downwards closed
Croque-Melpomene 