To drink the flower you must kill it, to live you must die, and to be reborn you must surrender to the flames
She chased everything shiny
and called it
her
spiritual path.
There is nothing
shinier
than something fake.
And
no matter how hard I tried,
eventually I was real.
Plain boring old real.
Then,
funnily or
incredibly not,
she lost her shine
too.
Liberation can be sad,
but like most
things,
only briefly.
They had a dog
but no
where to
bury
it
outside
the window
a red flower
jumps from the green
the same flower
they make wine
with
like all its beauty
isn’t enough to
see
you can also drink it
you start to wonder if this is it?
how good it
is even if
it isn’t real
and real
means what?
a child to raise
a woman to commit to
a lawn to mo
a quote to accept
a tender to win
a dog to train
a café to frequent
a mother in law to visit
a football club to follow
a first birthday to attend
a mechanic to trust
a dentist to pay
a waiting room to wait
a path to walk
a gym to member
a bottle shop to survive
a neighbour to greet
a drive way to hose
a thermostat to fix
a door handle to break
a bathroom floor to regrout
a lounge room to vacuum
a wedding to forget
a funeral to never laugh at
what is real?
what if she cant get you
because so many
have?
is one girl
the end
or is
twenty never
beginning?
To drink the
flower you must
kill it
to feel the wine
you must become
it
and,
is this it?
the piano keys
stay the same
and new music
comes
and the beer
is beer
and the new words
find simple
melodies
and there's an emptiness
you crawl into
because you
can only run
away from it
for so
long and you say
fine,
take me
and it does
and
this is it?
To drink
the flower
you must kill it
to live you must
die
and to be reborn
you must
surrender to the flames
I walk
and politely
catch eyes
with a round and
jolly Indian
travelling from
delhi
he asks, where I am from
how long I am here
what I am doing
what is there to do
I give him my details
and he asks
for a hug,
as he hugs me
he kisses me
on the neck.
two hours
later when I look
at my phone
there is
nine messages from him
and through
common sense
I say I am sick and wont
be doing anything
and he offers to come
and give me a massage
if heaven
does not
let gay people
in I'm
afraid ill be
the only man
there
God,
for someone
against gays
you seemed to
make an awful
lot of them
I buy four
beers
and put them
in the fridge
at the café
and say hello
to auntie
who
cooks with a smile
and no English
is needed
as we talk
the conversations
all end up
at the same place
and I could spin
a web with
words that are borrowed
and thoughts
poetic
and I could even trick
myself for a little bit
and I say
I don’t know
to save myself
from the pain
attached to pleasure
and they ask
how I know
that I don’t know
and I say
I don’t know
I wake up
beside the leaking
tap and my body
has accepted it
as my mind
still begs to
fix it
and I try and find
a shirt that hasn’t
been used as a blow
rag
and I am
comfortable in
my humbling
filth
Between her
yoga course
she visits
my room
and beside a warm
bottle of beer and pastels
we make love
She calls me
a generous lover
and if you
saw her
you would know
that is like
calling the man
who finished a bottle
of expensive wine
a generous
drinker
she gets
dressed
with a smile and
my hairy stomach
says
I told you so
Before she
walks into the
sunlight past
the cow with
sad eyes
she tells me I
am the first person
to finger her
ass
There aren’t
many
places
man has not
been but
enough
to keep
going
