“Wine Garden” by Jamie Mckinlay

there’s a wine bottle
that sits on my desk, empty
except for the rose that
sprouted one day spontaneously
(and then wilted) out of its neck.
2010: a very good year
(for me.)

there’s a whole garden in there now
and sometimes I feed it spritzer
(or whatever’s around) through a funnel
while starving rain
(disinterestedly) taps at my window
(like a jealous child)

and though I like to imagine
that it means something
(perhaps a metaphor)
really I just can’t help but be glad
(how low maintenance it is)
to have it around
(until recycling day.)


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“Nicotina” by Jamie Mckinlay

She and I, we go way back:
old Flame, abusive lover.

I would fuel her into being
to fuel my veins in exchange;
her chemicals of insidious intent
absorbed into my body, my blood, my
Being.

It was that first drag,
that divine, joyous, sensuous rush
of intoxicating, toxic pleasure,
that delicious crackle
of that first drag
of the day.

I would loll my head back,
close my eyes and think of nothing.
Nothing was more important
than that moment
in that moment.


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“Night on the City” by Jamie Mckinlay

At night,
secret desires of cities come alive
in the sprawling brawl of surviving
light.
Taking the guise of colour and sound,
they make their way around the
deserted streets: streets deserted
only of day-people. The Night-people
take their places with strange, unreal,
shadowy faces,
speaking only in riddles and whispers of
their dreams and
their fears.

When I grow up I want to be
An urn on someone’s mantelpiece.

And when they speak, they speak in
Silence to silent hums and vibrations,
invisible waves and radiation, beaming
out meditations to distant beings,
on square extremities of their beings,
like psychic extraterrestrial beings.

Where R U?

Lit-up traffic Lights the way
to the heart of the Night, which beats
rhythmic red, green, and amber,
and pulsing through these arterial streets
comes music, throbbing to be released
through heavy doors.
The night-people gather together
in awe

dum dum dum dum dum…

to have a drink or two or three and see
the sights: neon sounds
and penetrating lights,
sweat and sex and sex and sweat,
a wet symphony of secret desires
in city nights
awash in colour and sound.

Twit tweet twoo.

And just as that burning eye
lifts its lid over the sky to see
the buried night-people, forgotten,
pretending to be remembered
by the grave-markers that are
Day-people,
echoes of ecstasy
from cracks between curtains,
the calls that sounded the death of the city,
“the City is dead; long live the City,”
come in affirmative delight.

Yes. Yes. Yes.


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