I nod pleasantly,
Not absorbing anything -
The wash of pub chat.

Hard tales from hard lives,
Flowing freely; dredged up
As the beers sink down.

I am an island,
Sinking beneath a haze of
Alcohol - lost; alone.

So many pretty things -
So few opportunities
To consolidate!

An alcoholic
Re:lives his past endlessly,
But forgets the now.

Those maudlin souls weep
Into their beers and berate
Lives they have wasted.

In isolation
I observe; ignored, immune;
Free to contemplate.

Pub microcosms
Reflect society's woes
Better than the news.

Friends and foes alike
Are welcome at my table -
But they must behave!

The cute barmaids laugh
At my idiotic quips -
But none take me home!

****-jockey's posing
And idiots simpering -
Lonely souls fishing.

The popular seek
Fawns to flame their ego and cry
When bucks out grow them.

My own company
Can become stale, but at least
I'm not one of them!

Their contempt washes
Over me, but I'll survive -
Laughing all the way!

Do I appear as
These Others? Reliant on
Mates to make me cool?

I see the Cougar -
Self-proclaimed, but warranted -
Prowling for fresh meat.

The sounds of the World
Can break asunder against
My protective walls.

Much information,
Absorbed inadvertently
At the pub - Useless!

My room - womb:
Self-furnished surrogate;
Protective and exclusive;
Umbilically attached to the Other
Via electrons and electromagnetic waves,
Stimulating half-dead neurons;
Nourishing; pseudo-social life.

A womb - my room:
Self-imposed cocoon,
Refuge and retreat;
Amniotic psychic cushioning,
'Tissue-like; apathetic swaddling
Absorbing impacts of buck-shot cultures;
Allowing light mixed darkly - melancholy.

What am I doing with my life?
Round and round these thoughts spiral -
Same old concerns, same old complaints;
Any ego left, nothing but remnants
Of something always fragile, never solid, never whole,
Down the rabbit hole again.
Doors close - do any open?
Am I chasing my tail, destined to fail?
Am I losing my mind, trying to be kind?
Are my pipe dreams hallucinogenic?'
Can I overcome these genetics?
Around the corner - who knows what?
Maybe I'll succeed, maybe I'll be shot?
Getting old without a rudder -
Makes me scared, makes me shudder.
In this whirlpool of doubt and self-loathing
I'm drowning - searching for answers, receiving nothing.
Pitiful words are an inadequate reflection
Of someone trying to communicate without a connection.

The pressure mounts,
Too many thoughts to count;
Ripping hair to stay sane:
Too much! Brain strain!
(Will the stress send me insane?)

And the zephyr teases,
Tossing to-and-fro saplings fresh'
Which tantalise the Currawong, cowering its call,
And glistening crystalline on dewy morn's.
---------
You *****,
You moan'
You complain,
And you whinge.
---------
Hello,
Can I help you?
Or, better still, can you help me?!?
I've lost my mind,
Though I'm never sure I possessed it;
And if I did - I regret its escape.
---------
The pretentious poverty of money -
They think they look good, but what's really funny
Is the narcissistic approach that they tackle life -
Like everything is owed and nothing earnt;
Lucky to live amid so few excursions into reality.
---------
240 volt vac, attached to one's ball-sack
Jaw slack until the power is racked -
Up goes your nuts and voice pitches
To new dimensions, shrill and pre-pubescent.
Tears that masculinity denies appear in the corner
Of eyes steeled, and vacantly appreciative.
---------
You, my friend, can kiss my ****,
The **** you speak is but a farce -
Unrelated to the life we realise, experience;
Alien to any who maintain their conscience.

That raw emotion emanating anew
Touches the hearts of the faithful crew
Why? The question often asked - rarely reviewed;
Our selfish yearning, loss, neglect your pain.
But now, years after, our sorrows abated;
Now, that emphatic vocal scream back from the void.

Contempt this freedom,
Need enslavery for security;
Feel apathy, regret, hopelessness;
Path of continuity - too easy, too often.

Provoke temptress's scorn
Mislead the misadventure
Furtive undermining conscious
Tripped out and over-bored
Neglectfully narcissistic, never satiated.
---------
I don't want to be a poet,
Intellectually engaged with conceptuality;
I want to be popular,
Adored for simplistic, concise axioms -
Connective understatements stated plainly.
On second thoughts...now I realise...
I don't want to be popular - I want to be an advertiser!
---------
Comrade, yours is the sweetest victory:
Ruled the collection, dispersed, then died.
Never to know the scorn foreshadowed;
Realising no fulfilment, save vengeance
Of victims truncated and tortured raw;
Hollowed abomination, human condemnation.
---------
What am I saying?
To whom?
Of whom?
Since when?
Why now?
For what?
How come?
Where from?
[Who's who, who knows whom!?]