There was a time
when it seemed romantic
Hemingway etc. Now I go
to the cafe to avoid eating
Doritos in bed. ‘Study’ ends
in caffeine jitters—I do nothing
but stare at boys and expensive sandwiches.
Sydney forces bodies into the world
there are limbs everywhere, a calf
muscle on a pedal on a bike
by the traffic lights, arms
covered in wisps that look
like fairy floss in the beery light.
There are boys skinnier than me
boys with skin like milk, some are
carved from leather, and some
might be girls. I imagine
each one throwing me
onto a bed and the wooden
smack of the headboard, while
I lurk behind my laptop, sweating
my eyes slightly too wide
my toothy mouth too parted
in the street. The stream is never
ending. A gallery of dead
white intellectuals leer
at me from my computer
I look into my palm, ashamed
at the infinite swiping on Tinder
I brush them away.
There is no potential in this heat
it’s a show, a screen. I know full well
that no one will be thrown anywhere
certainly not me.