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The Last Interior
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March 12, 2024“I skip the party because I only want you, // not even talk, pushing your crumby head like a drug // into my ribs. Miles away, your voice hallucinates the border // but now and here my giant bed’s crying // for you in a stretch of bad dreams I roil out// and sweat” p. 11
“Grey sunset, the webbed wishing trees // Her voice catharsis like vaccine sends me // from this hot elastic suburb // loss sustains. Rings back. The city towers around the mirror // Your crying wakes you. Look at the extraverts.
These poems are powdered white, a narrowing cyclone into drug subculture in Melbourne, dizzying the reader into its vortex. They are lucid and hot and feverish - nonsensical and unsettling and confessional.
Another of Dad’s books, coffee-stained and grimy and inevitably so.
“Grey sunset, the webbed wishing trees // Her voice catharsis like vaccine sends me // from this hot elastic suburb // loss sustains. Rings back. The city towers around the mirror // Your crying wakes you. Look at the extraverts.
These poems are powdered white, a narrowing cyclone into drug subculture in Melbourne, dizzying the reader into its vortex. They are lucid and hot and feverish - nonsensical and unsettling and confessional.
Another of Dad’s books, coffee-stained and grimy and inevitably so.
Displaying 1 of 1 review