on stage she is a far superior version of her own shadow

 

on stage the plummet of fringe it’s front-lit like

navel oranges      suffuse in a past 11am winter

 

the friday after we discretely fought off sleep

in our nebulous gritty locations     perambulating

sleet will urge the city upon you     every time smudging

memory to actively possess     i was lost in a half-grown

hedge maze it’s called the country     in periodicals

 

you’re a real person under an identical rupturing sky

a warship on the bay while the tourists finger

the opera house (silliest acoustics in the cosmos     peer-reviewed)

literally you are you tho & i wrote: i am me! with a flourish ha

it etches exclamation across that council hanging-shrub-trimmer’s

life      he works his way up an infinite street misted & soaked

today it is     thursday

 

(i won’t even buy wine for pasta sauce now too

afraid of falling over     destroying the remainder

see instead you cajole half bottles

from guests & scribble out a list titled ‘tactics’)

 

the fridge is my gallery space but

we’ll go deep into the details later – past the canopy

microcosm & the vines of friends-of-friends, foggy

peculiarities hard to parse – or fuck it though am i right

 

i’m newly aware of ‘flight’

 

i’m leaving the city as vibrant & lit as i found it

i am myself or the world these are the same things

 

your voice is steady & always haunt in the best way

you have to dull the spirits of art-school kids fetch

warmth & quiet to an antechamber in the best way

you are warming into the fingerpicking & all things

make me happy like the neck marks     yours

this time & veiled     blearily

 

not hungover in the wrong terminal &

never again every atmosphere like

a set-pose: poem as situational comedy

poem with its back to the limousine

our designated roles for the next epoch flagged

 

when your closest friend is the voice of your map

mechanical & reliably one beat too slow

when you are nothing to former lovers

& you vainly blast your cortex ghettos

when you explore misted amazon cafes with

a broken public piano in each     when you tap on

for experience & hold up buildings in your palm like

an illusion or kissing in semiquavers

 

then i’m a nap expert a performance-space connoisseur

& a belligerent fuckwit – just part of the problem

 

the chamber is lighted & applause forgotten &

you can view me telling myself that i’m recognising stuff

not virtue signalling     still sick that people see

the reality of me while emending

any last conclusive statement

pondering a grace note