I am lonely, sad and, worst of all,
irrelevant.
I am marooned in a nocturnal world
of precarious employ
and tumbling towards middle age.
But the people I wanted to become
the writers, dilettantes, the “creatives”
they’re still out there, being fulfilled,
impecunious,
counting the beats.
They spend their Monday night in a dusty Newtown flat
which is perhaps not in Newtown
but an equal suburb /
gentrifying and unknowable
At least one booming restaurant critic coined it
“dangerously hip”.
I spend mine exploring the back of the couch
with my too-long fingernails
searching for my son’s toothbrush
accumulating grit.
They drink endless cups of tea
And discuss the idiosyncrasies of their masters supervisors
Maybe get fucked up, brush their teeth with vodka
I finger the alcohol-free beer cans in my fridge
and in this case, my too-long fingernails are of no hindrance
and pour myself a whiskey, neat.
Hours later, marooned in my tumbler
in amber oblivion too far steep’d
At least one phony whiskey critic coined it
“medicinal peat”
I recall how hollow my 20th century
English literature lecturer
Elizabeth Wilson’s
promises seemed.
Then I recall how Mac Jackson
shiny pate and shaggy mullet
spitting, animated, swaying at the lectern
spoke of Waiting for Godot.
And then, it all makes sense:
the amber lectern, the spitting impecunity,
the vodka teacups, the painful fingering
the dangerous medicines,
the broken heart.
