Lines on a friend’s dipsomania

Felicity, goodnight; leave the fast whirl, pleading weak
or want, but random, dull and stonkered
though you were and as if to protest

once more “I’m no souse” as you slugged back
doubles of gin sans tonic for hours – you moved,
all proud whimsical resolve like a pantomime parade

toward the night, blanched to your plastic lolly sandals
by the moon’s blue damask in the city
clouds. Homeward you’re counting the footfalls

of your erratic passage drunk and humming
nonsensical, since you’re almost
gone, still young though shuffling poorly up

Liverpool St to your flat in the ‘The Hopes’,
having haggled and hocked your rings
for what was only passion

pop. Slower and slower, one night
you’ll stop and be gone more completely,
though it’s already two years since, hit

by the car on Darlinghurst Rd and in your body’s
supernatural nine metre airflight, you decided
to live but forget how; two years since anaesthesia’s

tonic aquamarine daydream, since surgery
left you believing the less felt, the less
thought, the safer and better you would be

healed and held in a bell-jar cracked
from apex to inception – you have grown
to love in the dark of a cupboard

your fissure, as once you loved

 

First published in Heat #8.

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s