SATURDAY NIGHT ALIVE Poem by Danie Marais

I do the
too-much-retro-beer-during-happy-hour-
on-Saturday-evening in-the-Heartbreak-Hotel number.
Yes,
then I do the old
"man-who-wants-to-live"-drink-weekend-beer number
as dutifully as some old guy
trying to win his legs back after a stroke
does his exercise routine.

I do the late-tram-home number —
I check the
couples-cooing-together-against-the-cold item;
I seethe quietly for the
bum-passed-out-alone-against-the-window-
with-the-blue-spider-web-tattoo-that-creeps-up-his-neck routine.

I do the sudden-inspiration-blowing-in-the-night number and
walk along playing the strolling-to-Miles-Davis-blowing-blue-
trumpet-over-the-deep-river-with-the-oil-neon-dreams
scene.

I do the raid-on-the-flat-and-
storm-the-fridge number.
I do the Judy-Garland-on-the-windowsill-
with-Amaretto-and-milk-
"somewhere-over-the-rainbow"-
that-the-doctor-proscribed programme.

With the full power of my lungs
I do the
"What-now-my-love?-
now-there-is-nothing-
I-feel-the-world-
closing-in-on-me"
the "What-now-my-love?-
now-that-it's-over-
-there's-only-sky-
where-the-sea-should-be-"
little number.

But for safety reasons I also do the self-critical-
1-2-3-block-myself-
is-the-poem-necessary?
Procedure
I do the shake-the-head-the-old-mother-language-
like-a-defective-Coke-despensing-machine-in-an-abandoned-Bahnhof-
in-a-small-German-ghost-village-long-after-midnight routine.

I pull and pluck my head-language-heart like a pinball machine
and with a shrug of the shoulder I do
the Send number -
turn off the computer,
leave the closed room of poetry,
brush teeth,
walk slide eel and she
in the bed.

In the bed I lie electrically
still, wide awake -
look through the blinds
how dark the night
how sickle the moon.