Sydney Poetry
A social site for poets in Sydney.
paper
on an origami bench
painted like a rifle
sits the old small man
he's a chinese i guess
'cause he's calm and
his hair is gone
'cept for eyebrows -
two of them
which he combs
back over to hide
the bald
my hands were
cold and on my
arms
i wanted to wave
to feel some warmth
the sun doesn't shine
on afternoons that i live
in
but i didn't know him
or his language
and i knew i was ugly
and
scared
of myself when i wither
it is like old age nepotism
the gravity of alcohol
where there's nothing
left in your pharmacy
that pull
of grav-
itation
a black hole in my universe
taking my stars
every possible
embarrassment
like a supernova
every chance
to hate myself
well-utilised
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