Slow the Choking Wrinkles

The only time I’ve felt any better than being in a bar is when writing a poem and there’s a whole lot to be said for doing something badly instead of being paid for something you’re not gunna change the world with.

Anyway, baby, today I’m in a bar thinking about choir girls, thinking about blue mornings and how it all got so bad, about not trying and fuckin CinemaScope….

Then on comes the news and on came a poem.

“You like news, boy?” he asked.

Depends what news, let’s face it. I don’t like news about lasagna burning my throat.

I take a slow drink,
I have wrinkles in my shirt,
its three days worn since it was last washed,
but it doesn’t matter,
I’ve got a fanbase of nighttime workers;
cabbies, factory slobs.

I’m two nights a week on the air with my opinions. O, Radio. Great God.

I look at the guy –
“Hey, mister,
don’t call me boy.
I’m no fuckin boy.”

And once I’m done looking
with my sloped faced dick
I think
I think
about how the poem got away
about Amsterdam (I once sex-wrestled two 17-year-old’s in a toilet cubical)
about the Thorbecke Bar (where they saved me with whiskey and wine)
and I say


and that’s all.

All I remember about anything is:

down there,
blue -
but they’ve got it,
throwin and fistin it
and drinking rum and berries.
And I think at least I think -
they’re some lucky bastards.

I haven’t seen a truck for days, mumma,
haven’t seen a truck for days.

And man, mumma,
I got these big ears
and dark eyes
and they don’t even look at me on the street,
the honies don’t even look at me on the street, mumma.

Let alone not look at me.

I’m empty
and I can ask a girl from New Zealand for drinks but she’ll smell
my breath
and I’m one can of beer short – always -
and one other thing short.

and she’s a long swim away,
behind the mic -
the red light ‘on air’ new chance little lust sign on -
but I’m blue
like the dust of war
falling and choking
and six shots away
or about six,
more or less six.

Slow the Choking Wrinkles

Martin Lost

South Yarra, Australia

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poem poetry

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