Something in Nobody

To whomever bought my soul,

the self I met on a city road
somewhere north of Tasmania
trampled under snakeskin
resurrected by reflection

dressing in various states of mania
receiving infidelic accusation
climbing fences
to to escape condemnation
getting lost
in sexual mistranslation

but you said–
I never said that
you assumed it
chasing delusions
on the harbourside

held up by translucent
validation
temporary like you spent
300 dollars a gram
to be assured that

we are Somebody

climbing over and under
somebodies
trying to find something
in nobody

bruised shins
pale-faced contemplations
self-esteem in a bag
echoing of
“I don’t think I can swing it”
that’s okay

I think I’m having another episode
I haven’t seen that one yet
don’t spoil the ending
the finale
is disappointing

the end of the line
on christless trains each Sunday
see-through dresses
bender glasses
opaque motives
clear as day

bathroom consummations
nonmonogamous complications
coming out of the cracks
to ask
what’s the matter

pieces of yourself
left down Parramatta
picked up at bus stops
dropped off
in letter boxes

new beginnings
left in rubbish bins
graffiti artist rapists
receiving congratulations
with documentaries

a series of good men
exchanged for things
we’ll never need
frontmen at dead ends
guitarists left with no friends
and no receipts

aren’t we all getting a bit old
for involuntary withholding
I know I am
biannual hospitalization
on the market again

dotted lines signed
with ripped out IV’s
impatient faceless nurses
saying
miss would you sit down please

for how many more years
can we handle more of these
runways and airplanes
stairways and balconies

where nothing fits
nobody fits
but we’re all having some of it
crossed-over proboscises
in constant need for more of it

will you remember Me

excuse my slang
I’m relearning the language
sorry miss
just have a seat
there’s a surcharge
for emotional baggage