On being lonely, sad and, worst of all, irrelevant.


I am lonely, sad and, worst of all,


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,


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.

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2 Responses to On being lonely, sad and, worst of all, irrelevant.

  1. namelessneed says:

    good the second time around, too/ thanx


    • the pigman says:

      hey, thanks!
      that means a lot from you – i’ve spent some time this evening happily meandering through your work – i think you epitomise the daily “spilling” habit i’d like to get into to better hone the craft 🙂


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