The Season In Hell by Brenton Booth

I understand the wilting flower
the dusty bowl on the shelf
all the words ever written about longing:
is this why Rimbaud stopped writing poetry?
drinking bourbon fast on a Saturday afternoon
in my unit in the roughest part of Sydney
raindrops dancing on the roof
my neighbour still quiet two days after I told
him we should have a fight right now on the
Kandinsky on the wall and dust on the floor
the terrorists killing on the other side of the
believing their actions to be right
and they are no more wrong than any other
murder for any cause or country
the penguins eating snails
and tears the same as always
while I open another can
and wonder if this poem will ever end.

Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry and fiction of his has appeared in many small press publications. To read more of his work visit

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