Poetry from Lillet Dorothy
My Week
I’m on the bus on the way to a party, won’t know anyone and my heart’s shaking.
A little high to cope, that’s how it is sometimes; mentally, abstractly, I shrug.
Comical.
I’ve been grieving for a year now, still waiting on the death. I’m feeling like it’s right around the
corner now.
‘I’ve been so politely at the bottom, pull it tight bootstrap, strap it on, and top them’ (Phenom,
Song by Thao) is never not running through my mind.
Sam had his first date in years. I was nervous.
There’s two teen’s behind me on the back of the bus. I’m aware I’m dressed cool, that I may be
looked up to. I try not to act crazy. They stand to get up, my heart’s all aflutter. They’re so gay!
Imagine the character from animal crossing, swaying, eyes squint in joy and hearts radiating
upwards. This is what it feels like to see one of your own out in the world.
Text to Sam on a separate bus earlier that day:
‘There’s a couple on the bus who
remind me of our old couple friends
with how they look. The guy is a bit
more Adam saddler dressed though
and the girl is a bit more girly.
He kissed her softly when I sat down
and stroked her face. You can tell he’s
obsessed with her.
He rubbed her neck where it hurt for
most of the bus ride and watched her
tenderly. He stops and kisses her
cheek, strokes it. And now they’re
sitting and waiting eagerly to get off.
Also a baby gave me a side eye; a sort
of chin-up look from his pram across
the bus, like he was squaring me up to
fight.
They’re making me miss you. The
couple, not the fight-baby.’
My grand-dad’s hand on the hot leather steering wheel of the old MG, perfectly blue. Thick
silver ring tapping to Elvis.
The masc is in cargo pants, all baggy, hair long, dark. Face is wooden – perhaps insnared in
unrequited love? One can only hope.
She’s pirated a copy of euphoria and is Rue.
Fem in glorious pink pants, skimpy top and mid-drift agape.
The world is so reflective like that, trapped inside a reverse disco ball. Everywhere I look is me,
shining back at me, in shards.
‘Do they think therefor they am?’ (Cunk on Earth, Filomena).
Death has been stalking me. In customers, in colleagues, in my boss, in the tarot.
Two little baby dykes sitting in a tree, both of them are me.
There’s a little plastic farm lined along the low brick fence a block from home. I’m tensing for
the blow. Pulling tighter for the blow. Let the full weight of loss fall on me. I know that instinct
to pull away at closes, and I yank against it.
Nearer, nearer, nearer still.
Black Paint On Pink Brick
There’s a stencil of a clown with a grin,
Above an office-block window,
Painted black on pink brick.
Inside, a man’s eyes squint shut with fatigue,
Like one does when the movie is finished
And their eyes are no longer used
to daylight.
He types away all the same,
Through his heavy stripes of vision,
And when his co-worker passes by,
all eager for a chat,
Good naturedly,
he paints and plasters on his grin -
All black, on pink brick.
Eyeing the clock over the shoulder of his comrade,
(five minutes to one – his lunch break)
The smile softens, relaxes,
(his co-worker’s voice like it’s underwater)
And imagines how he’ll recline his car seat,
And rest those heavy lids,
Those aching feet and tense shoulders -
Even if only,
for twenty minutes.
Liquor girl goes to a party.
Where ya garn liquor girl?
With ur eyes all marked with black,
Two leftover samples in ya bag.
Call that purse wine.
1 litre 400 mls.
Where ya garn liquor girl?
Right after work?
Stomping through the paddock to the bus,
Playin’ you’re still on the farm back ‘ome?
Where ya garn liquor girl?
With your breath all sour?
$8 sav blac only tastes good on the first swig,
And only cos it’s free.
$8 don’t get u much these days.
Where ya garn liquor girl?
Running on such empty?
Where ya garn liquor girl?
On a Sunday and at a time like this?
Where ya garn liquor girl?
With your work ethic all amiss.
Where ya garn liquor girl?
I’m not takin the piss!
Were ya garn liquor girl?
With the sour atti-tude!
Where ya garn liquor girl?
Wishing u had a doob?
Yes.
Where ya garn liquor girl?
Friend’s place.
Can I come?
Fuck off, cunt.
Find more from Lillet over on Instagram, and get some BONUS poems from them on the Baby Teeth Patreon if you’re so inclined.
