Sydney Poetry
A social site for poets in Sydney.
Parole
I mean
re: last nights
dud pills
just a glitch, mate
he laughs it off
like
bad karma/it’s 77
the strobe gets
your pulse up
again
I think hard about
the house wine,
the warm morning
lull,
what can we do
to make this easy?
I know of a job, I mean,
it’s been weeks,
my tongue moves in
slow-mo disco coma,
I scrape syllables
from the roof of
my mouth
don’t worry, something
will come up,
the things we tell ourselves
I mean,
it’s parole
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