“HOME AT LAST” by John Grey


to a dark pleasure hole,
a kind of low mass,
labor-saving devices,
dismal yellow wallpaper –
no wonder a man drinks
from boiling hell,
a kitchen table will have to do,
a series of apposite deluding
sermons on the pleasures
of the self-
beliefs balance so precariously
and here’s me praising them,
refusing to leave the building,
as solitude stares out at the universe
and then some –
where the stars cheer
at whatever Duchamp is painting these days,
as booze reclaims its place in religion,
colorless morphine for the masses
turning the world away from me –
what is it like out there anyhow?
baritone voice through megaphone,
boutique balustrades, psychotic rainbows,
bums pissing in the gutter –
can’t clean myself up for
if I shave I leave blood in traces,
can’t ask the light::
causality has never been so clean-shaven –
heady days of the early nineties,
don’t wait for formal burial,
enlist in a war with even electric shavers
and foam licking bloody chins –
a laugh riot for all who believe
in the rotting worth of bodies.


John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in
That, Muse, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming
in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Hawaii Review and the Dunes

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