the click of the corkscrew
against the bottle
and art
tore up and destroyed with matches.
I see
poetry now
full of people wearing shirts
and very tight jeans to show off the ass
and I am 25
and sick of it,
sick of waiting for the poems to start
to mean something again,
waiting
until I remember
what being in love was like
and I think they meant something
in london
when I was unhappy with myself and in good
unhappy love –
love is the lock, unhappy
the key.
and now the view from my apt window
is on some fuck’s garden wall
and then out to a road
with cars on it
instead of people.
and the click of the opener
against the bottle
and the art
tore up again and destroyed,
as good as with matches
or by pissing beer on it.
DS Maolalai recently returned to Ireland after four years away, now spending his days working maintenance dispatch for a bank and his nights looking out the window and wishing he had a view. His first collection, Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden, was published in 2016 by the Encircle Press. He has twice been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
