a revhead full of vodka slushies,

      fading bling, the schlock of the old.

 just don’t hand over the car keys.
sampling a fizz of schweppervescence

  I think of us, you and me,

        our lifetime lack of fancy salaries.

on a close and muggy morning

  I muddled a muddled job interview,

          their risible enquiries,

  my irrelevant,

      yet innovative, projects,

                                    dah de dah
		  *
walking up through Erskineville

   the florist’s mauve-tinged cabbages

               remind me of Derek Jarman

 and of a lover who stayed indoors

   drawing plants

                  for years,

funny to think it now

  but when she said it was agoraphobia

         I visited her darkened flat

   and gave her all my Neil Young records.
		*
I wonder how it is for you, this instant,

          like,       today,

 at your four days a week job,

              a cluttered counter –

    papers, keyboard, pencils,

                     ‘On The Level Everyday’

  stacked beside something intense, like

            ‘Living in the End Times’,

   guarding a small corner of sapient activity

(sounds pretentious,

                though to me, true)

     charged with bearing, mien,

not temporal,

            more the neurons’ frenzied,

  although private, oscillations,

        that some groover might call ‘vibes’,

going as fast as

       or faster than

              the Giant Hadron Collider

zzzzmmmmmmm    zzzzmmmmmmm    zzzzmmmmmmm

    in the government-funded

                   intellectual art world
or
  casual days, loafing with art theory,

worrying only that the bright summer light

        might pierce the shopfront windows,

and fade the display
    my memorylessness –

       which direction does the building face?
		   *
something lacklustre about

   lacking lustre

        like the squarest greyest

block of apartments

          always called ‘Liberty’ 
		   *
anyway

  I feel it

      going to my very shivering, clicking

          axiological bones,

that palpitating measure, (what she say?

                what she mean?)

  that you have going there,

                           art critic.