great artesian nowhere

By | 25 November 2019

we live on liquified pastures
on thylacine-skin print
blown in from the curved backs
of armchairs
hung on walls in gully-dust paintings
in the saturn-rings of wine glass bottoms
upon the lips of drooling escarpments
where sandstone sponge seeps wet-season fluid
down through guttered labyrinths of savannah.

this is of course not where we live
because we live in the television boxes
of such places
in the fridges in the sheds
on the carpets of abandoned paint-shops
in the wake of road-train gusts
in silent stupefaction
of being here at all.

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