Poetry

Gareth Morgan

she’s flailing at the end of things

a-choo! excuse

the letters i lost

today in the rain and salvage

today in the sun burning thanks

for meeting me in the foyer

giving me the leftover pastries

destined for the bin

who, i can’t believe you 

made my day back to normal

i’m gonna shower soon 

if they don’t give us a refund

i’ll flip a lid if they do

i’ll finance a holiday

ghastlily 

parroting from your shoulder: 

‘naïveté’ ! ‘naïveté’ ! ‘mauve’ !

‘restaurant’ ! 

who cares 

it’s richmond, it’s wherever

the land of motherfuckers

and some vietnamese 

we smoke a cigarette a la carte

we do a little vignette on the corner

the world slips by watching

us……… us! we act out

it’s like how baseball was born

which is to say rose 

from the ashes of boredom 

the doco on it one part glam one part 

hopelessly dull

you’re busy fawning over dull movies

for entrepreneurs those lovers of non-fic

and she’s flailing, she’s getting paid

it could have been us

it could be. we are young

we see the david byrne concert 

in crete and cry. we scream back 

at the idiot-box: YOU 

we do not suffer for pastries

holy holy jaguar kickers

shitbags the lot 

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