SPOTLIGHT: Show Me The Way Into Exile by Damien Posterino

Show Me the way into Exile

Surrender by
your teens.

Stand still
on tip toes.

I don’t want to be
in their tribe ¬–

hands shake
when I try

to tie a perfect
Oxford noose.

Picket fences
speak in tongues,

suburban schemes
eat my brain.

Remember when
they laughed at me –

is an open grave.

Scribbled screams
on toilet walls

as philosophy.

The old lightkeeper
stays still –

prays for the lost.
Each ebb of the tide

another riddle
to be solved.

The sea’s wind whistles
a homecoming song

for men in exile.
Shipwrecks are everywhere.

The last dance saloon

Voices in your ear draw it closer –
a crowded world
with everyone but him.

Conversations with strangers about the weather.
How you wish
torrential rain would stop.

Dreams leave a ransom note behind.
Try to catch those
stars that shoot away.

Alone tonight to stare into a mirror –
slow dance
with another broken heart.

There’s never been a better time to cry.
Even the fortune teller
has surrendered.

The fall of the Roman Empire

Stood on top of the swell ¬–
the world seemed smaller than you.

Oblivious last days.
Arms stretched up as a rockstar,

naked on its peak.
Fingers caressed the skies’ toes.

Crowds watched you as a god.
Birds sang your name

for a sprinkling of summers.
Temptation lifted you up,

carried you on its shoulders –
weekends went for years,

stretched out like elastic.
Negotiated jobs and last warnings.

Nose fuelled –
you jumped off cliffs

into rocks.
All-night benders

at alley-way dives –
the real world stared in disbelief.

In a flash the ocean’s crest collapsed –
you tumbled into the deep.

A crash test dummy
smashed into oblivion.

Hold your breath
inside the wreckage.

Light stings.
The party is over.

People used to applaud when a plane landed

A can of dreams
breaks fairy floss clouds –

a drag queen
landing on stage.

Feet and tears
swell, children yell

at mothers who haven’t
had a wink in years.

Shot gun weddings,
reconciliations and

unhappy endings hang
suspended while we wait

for trolley dollies –
company cloned and cheek boned,

to serve up second best.
Business class couples

hold each other,
hand to glove under

blankets of, whatever it is
those people have.

The rest of us
retreat into window seats

to manage our turbulence
and search for runways

which never seem
to arrive.


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