PreReversion

I’d been using
tasteless opioid
downers
for painting
abstracts
and when they
ran out
I extracted the poppy
from the pain
-killer, the power from
the -cetamol

and the spoon
almost stands in the
coffee.

So
when I picked up
one of
his
books, a posthumous
reissue
from the enviable
place of continuous
readership

it reminded me
not more
so the brilliance alcohol
adds to the
Brine

we exist in
but the fall
fail and continuous
struggle
up, the day, worked
through reaching
for the bottle
-neck, ass and his carrot.
I like his
poems— the good
poems touch
it—that trip
to the bottle
shop, softness
of either
polished
concrete or wooden
floors satisfied
with unitarian wall
support,
the anticipation
of a relatively certain
decrease in the gravity
shouldered
in words I am sure
once never existed
like pressure
anxiety stress
by the weight
carried home, soon
becoming
undressed
alive
inside our pollen
transfers

in a dervish ecstasy
near divine
& never guilty
eternity not negotiable,
no responsibility
because everything
every teachable
thing
has already been
done.

push Play.

to Night
to the excellent powering
down.

Now, it says, move
past the idea.
the bee, the flower
the soil, the seller
of philosophies in oil
Words like ‘divine’

are unchanged
underwear collecting
groin stink, dour
closeted fears.

I’m teetering
edge-wise, back
stepping, co-
depending,
high on ‘deine
remembering
only the high
points, not
the arriving
inchoate at one
am., but
the first explicit
glass of two, three
bottles, wading
into the poetry
certainly waiting,
typer relevant
and steel
as evening darkens, all
the way down,
west
to the desert,
drongo
with looters, the lost,
the never-left
blackfellas
the trail of white
boys bringing
their hollow
sticks

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