You're back from Melbourne
and already sadness floors you.
Belief flows out, his face deadlocked
and your friends playing Largactyl-piano
to the orange empty lookout street.
It doesn't seem like an occasion, or war in Poland,
it's just Enmore
and a man falls down the steps.
The waterfront is on strike
and our useless fuel blows the house out.
The more you talk the more vacuous it gets,
as I walk away from the conversation
like a soul
slipping out of death.
I have deliberately made my brain smaller,
but the cliff is free.
From the plane, clouds on an invisible shield
spread to their horizon, then curve.
I wake up like a soldier,
and fire. I have deliberately made my mind blank
for you to talk to, and now between sweetness and revolt
my mouth is hurting on your skin
and means dying.