By | 13 October 2020

rather buoyant to throw around a word like ‘paradise’1
but I’d take bats ova beeps & bastards any day—
& greens, flakey tans & periwinkle eeks

somewhere in another dimension, a silver commodore zips
past a window & a nuttelex-haired passenger w/ red glasses
throws the head back & laughs
o 2 b Zooming through a saturday morning
w/ such verve / or any morning really / or w/ any verve

my lungs are so full of muck & I cough
& I cough
& I did this
to myself / almost w/ purpose & w/ good reason

this place—one time (or still)—a colonial birth canal: water-rush-quote/unquote-“purity”

Semi-Divine Anxieties! o drown thy selves in washtubs
filled w/ paper bark or faecal matter
& what matters may matter will matter will mattress

is opaqueness hidden meaning or
an attempt to not be found out so quick?

\\ focus shatters

whatever peace you found here
is it here
was it ever
will it be
enough to Void thy Self, who,
like pollen in the wind will
tumble dry on high speed,
up & down wind shafts
losing what amounts to
a finger or a toenail, before evtl.,
settling somewhere else.

  1. This poem was written for a site-specific event run by Osmosis. It was heard by listeners in Lachlan’s Swamp
    in Centennial Park, Sydney, on Gadigal Land, July 2020.
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