I’m out the back writing, throwing back a cab sav,
The royal purple trumpet flowers bowing before me.
It’s not a big backyard.
But it’s mine.
I can enter my own little world if I want to.
Don’t have to answer stupid questions about my failings.
There’s a balmy sea breeze blowing
And I’m reading an article by Peter Schjeldahl
Who barfed in the bright green bushes when he came home
From a college party.
The vomit was bright orange, the sky a pastel blue.
He was amazed at the colour. Later he became an art critic.
I wrote a post about barfing in the bushes, the one before this
But hardly anyone read it.
And no, I’m not TRASHING it. It’s good !
I could drink the whole bottle of wine out here
And forget about the bushfires, the bloody bushfires and the threat of war again.
Fuck that too.
It’s good out here. So good.
I’m king in my board shorts and tank top and bare feet
under a crown of blue sky
kicking back the shit
putting it in this poem.
Perhaps I will drink the whole bottle.