PS Cottier

In the pub

Wedges of moon
float in my glass
sky lemon stings

Vodka ice glass
nine tenths hide below
titanic kick

Poker beeps
sour head nods in shame
beer swims laps

Salt chips taste
absent smoke plumes
long since flown

P.S. Cottier

internal combustion

After a day where my car broke down, necessitating a service call to the NRMA and a tow truck, I think a drink or two is called for. At least I was wearing flat shoes today, so I could walk home after sending my daughter in a taxi to school! I’ll have to get stuck in at the poem mines to pay for the repairs. About 200 years’ poetry should do it.

Now, click this boozy plume, dropped by a bird that can’t remember what, or who, it did last night. Read some more poems, a few of which were written by sober people. Perhaps.*

*If New Zealand poets are the same as Australian poets, I am just being polite here.

And here’s the official launch invitation for Triptych Poets Issue Three, of which I am one-third:

come along canberra