That girl, From The Party After The play

someone I didn’t know slept
on next to me.
I didn’t wake her when I rose,
sickened, to medicate
from the cool frigates
moored in the harbours of the mind.
and any apprehension
left me as I lit the first
enrolment form and moved
the blanket covering
a long spine, cellulite, a
few pimples to who I had
to slowly piece together
as I sat beside the old compewta
and watched her
and smelt her and couldn’t
remember what
we’d been doing.

I smelt myself. I bubbled
a cone and drained the bladder
for a pint of the last merlot,
I lifted the insects out and felt Forever
on the exhalation
as a place I would’t want to leave,
smoky partial rays of summer, light
fragrance of the night, beeswax
blobs of a forgotten candle. I opened the
book cover of her buttocks
and read low, obsessed for her
story …hmmm she said, dhaa.
and I was blind, like a radar
but I didn’t have the narrative
and soon she asked
throwing back the lighter
if I’d like to fight her
beat the panels dented in the landing
and the hot city magnified the heat
and light lit the curtains like the perspex
box at the studio, by the telephone
/fax I used to view the Hasselblad
transparencies on. I was in my Dream
no mistake, I wasn’t just looking
at the negative. go one further
she said, grab my throat, don’t leave a
mark though, and cracks began
appearing in her breathing, and I took
it to her roughly, to the hanger, I said
to the reaches of our large human minds.
both of us filming by creating,
these were the fantasies assembled
in our childhood, every party
every bender, every carbon
-copy send-off, on every contact
sheet from the Nikon I was getting
older— into place, but further
from the resolute original. I pinned her
arms forcing my origin between her
hips, her knees, expertly parted I thought,
on top of the first thought, running
the stoned tip of my bald hard look
around her lips, waiting for a numbness
to truly penetrate, before the right
to celebrate her ended.
nearly every morning
was a crumbled cork
from the bottle of the night drained,
and the previous day explained
started like it didn’t pay any
attention, ideas were minutes
being quickly reimagined
in the do-nothing smoke,
fungal hallucinations, abysmal diet,
socks, a hefner robe, a guccione
scrambling in the failure to repack
for online content. I photographed
the yellow green light of tennis balls
in the curtains, then left them open
for some neighbours in the flats above
are things done just done to try it.
and my balls she said I love it
they were banging and stroking
her lower hole, hanging fat & heavy
feijoa shapes in the Tuesday
humidity.

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