Fifty-Seven.

26/2/14

Izzy circle

izzy

threads of spit hold me together like a memory
these are just the stories we tell ourselves

looking up is just another way of building wings
wax or not, we will still soar

*

Sarah circle

sarah

There’s a fat mister possum up that big ol’ tree
Glowing like a junebug in green-filtered light
Looking down over this rumpus like a king in the air
And he can see us all –
The dwarf with his pants down doing the twist
The man in the wheelchair singing along to ‘Stand by Me’
The mustachioed bigtop leader soft shoe shuffling
The drunken staggering black and white lady
Flashing her zebra stripes all the way through her fall
The lurching cussing screeching flailing crowd
Shoving their faces together with boozy fat beer breath
Arms outstretched like the world’s great forgiveness
Hopping on the dancefloor like the bass is a taser
And swirling together with roly poly stained teeth
And right in the middle, watching how the liquor
Puts sex on the brain and stupor in the feet
Is me, quiet and still in an old denim jacket
Feeling little and fragile and stupid and sad

*

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