Poems of strength and suffering

These desic­cated moments
flake off my skin
like so much overtime.

My hands are dry and cracking,
peeled raw and papery
My neck my back my eyes
I walk slowly down long tramlines
in dark­ness with lights behind
catch­ing up and winds blowing
Down too straight alleys
beg­ging for leaves to swirl
in some form of justification

And here
And here
There is only loneliness
and betrayal, the wind simply
bites into flesh and there is
no sweet recon­cili­ation or triumph
no deep sigh of acceptance
no surcease
no drug
no smoke from cigarettes
some­times the cloy­ing sweet­ness of alcohol
Becco mac­chi­a­tos and the juice of limes

This city
This city
cries out twice over in its jagged tracks
in junkies’ arms and CBD boulevardes
in the lonely hearts of its tinpot prophets
shout­ing hal­le­lu­jahs from street corners
and hand­ing out cold embraces to hungry teens
from dark vans on the edges of malls,
passed over again and again
by bespec­tacled suits shouldered down into
their guilty avarice, their whispered dismay,
their wanton vicissitude.

Meet me halfway,
I’ll dance spir­als around old bronze men
hur­ry­ing to their appoint­ments on Swanston.