- Non-Erotic Poetry
- up against the wall of withdrawl
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up against the wall of withdrawl - incident @ bray’s beach
The sand is hot.
On my radio, a love song - who gives a fuck about soft, vulnerable people
yeah, yeah, yeah.
I don’t.
I’m giving up smoking. 47 minutes without a cigarette. But who’s counting?
I am.
Low tide. The water looks cold. I’m not going in. Fuck that.
Lying flat on my back, on my towel, naked under a tree, I am alone and chasing a tan. The flies are bad, could be something dead nearby.
It's getting harder to move.
48 minutes.
A cold turkey waddles by. I want to drink coffee. Lots of it, double-strength long blacks. Rolling onto my belly, I survey the scene- the yellow crescent of sand,
pandanus palms line the perimeter. Behind me, Tabletop Hill recedes into rainforest.
Quiet, secluded. I am reminded of a postcard, an I Ching coin, ANNE SEXTON!
(Panic ...)
‘Blue, so much blue, the sky breaks. It sags and breathes upon my face ...’
On the radio ... yes folks this is Herman Goering. And now it's time to suffer on this glorious day, up against the wall of withdrawl.
A sudden noise! A clatter of pebbles! Invaders from Mars! This is Georg Grosz, not Rousseau! I turn my head, and there, emerging menacing from the forest,
a cigarette!
It stares at me, surprised. I ready my Zippo.
I move, it turns, I leap to my feet, it flees, I sprint, gaining, dive, tackle.
There’s no escape. Flick. Flame. I inhale deeply ...
fuck...
1 minute.
