reading Bukowski puts me in a mood,
one of those sons of bitches.
listening to Isaac Hayes’ first album,
the soul soaked
aaaaaaaaain Bourbon
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagrooves,
takes me
somewhere
else
which means nothing to you, I know.
you’ve been out the front of the house
attaching purple streamers
aaaaaaaaato the fence, because
it’s your mother’s
birthday.
I’ve been lying on the couch
thinking I could be
somewhere
else
the streamers wouldn’t go where you wanted.
“the wind,” you said,
aaaaa“kept blowing them off”.
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa— shit like this,
the incongruence of reality
& what we’ve hoped for,
it hits you hard.
you cry everything,
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayour face
turns to plasticine.
I hold you. I don’t say anything.
but I understand
how much it matters.
together
we spin a tight cocoon
& wait to see
what happens.
Published in Poetry New Zealand 40, March 2010.
