Fat bergers and tributaries
Maybe it was in the late 80’s?
in Kings Cross, after Backpackers,
a Sunday afternoon, pissing rain.
I found myself drilling a night fighter among a timpani of bins
behind some chicken shack salmonella dive,
she’d sidled up and offered her wares,
we bucked and rode like spastic drunks.
I faked orgasm in limp humiliation,
ripped the rubber from my flesh and tossed it drainward.
Now, a fat-berger drifts slowly river-bound,
a DNA filled sack of cum clings like afterbirth
to nappies, tampons and cast off kids,
my bio-degradable debauched past creeps in a glacier of waste.
Part of me remained in drains
beneath a great fine rotten mass of life,
while I wandered this world from then till now
seeking other tributaries for my deposits.