Arid Waterhole

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Leon Yerfdog

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And above the noise the wisps of conversation
That fall in your glass to be swallowed indiscriminately
Lost to a digestion that can't accept the media with which
It is brought flushed out again to a porcelain death
Hours and many monies later your position remains the same
The pool in front of you emits the same blurred image
As it did and hour ago as you commit yourself to a suicide
You intend to live through
These are memories on bad nights
On the cold nights that forge youths memory
That imbeds itself to a lifestyle that its existence will continue
There are the warm nights full of the smell of lotions
That like spores fill the air settling on clothing and colonising
Amongst the hair the painstakingly arranged tie the flowers
The dandruff and the voices
Always the drone the clustering to the bar as barnacles to a pier
Inedible muscles soaking in the essence of an amber sea

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