In what ego-centric universe
do you think the whole street
is happy to listen to your crap
all night long or, in fact, at all?
In which blind fantasy do you suppose
your neighbours to be muttering
cheerily into their pillows
good on them
tomorrow is a holiday?
With whose value system do you judge
your right to saturate the cul-de-sac
with noisy beer
against our right to sleep
or hold a conversation in our own house
Certainly, it is Easter and you can sleep in
which is why Christ rose from the grave
so you and your Lion Red friends
can party party.
Park your cars all over the footpath.
Yell fat fuckens across the night
of other people’s homes
and into children’s bedrooms.
A bloody good night, I heard from the street.
A bloody good night.
I fell asleep resolving to mow the lawns
tomorrow at the arse crack of dawn
right after trumpet practice.
First published in Bravado.