Evening Star
By Ali Alizadeh
Published 1 January 2021
This happened to me. 1994: She radiated
like a celestial, perusing the pages
to unnerve me. Was I so positive
of money as an imperative? She closed
my Year 12 visual arts diary. How
the fuck had I been fooled into studying
Civil Engineering? Joining
the cluster of other fish, with affluence
the sacred covenant to save us from
the curse of the stream. I left the lecture
hall quietly, subtracting eye contact
from the dismal and the damned. Credit
/cash fetish supersedes exchange-value
in the swamp, becomes their Real; happy
-ness, a slight, semantic effect. I trudged
out of the campus, through the Botanic
Gardens. The sun, toppled. Status
I shall forever sniff a nose at. Engineers
spineless serfs or psycho masters. I had
the high school sketches in my bag
and reached the riverbank. Drive
something parents plant inadvertently
in infant’s language. Mum wanted me
to become a doctor, actually. Finding
a joint with cheap rent, not easy. I wasn’t
long for buying things at whim. I sat
down to make a decision. I was 18
with my arse stamped on the grass
staring up at Venus perforating
the lavender sky, her talons of light.
Originally published in Evental by Vagabond Press.