on the way to yamma’s

white lines paint the boundary

the fittest tyre on my back

curls

lance the navy-blue blues

son of a dogged captain at princes hill

used to drag like this, like me,

a struck nail in the morning
yamma said, swim laps, big laps

but now i do the drive-by

and the dust, (just) blurs
beeswax on talbot avenue, balwyn

it’s such a joke                  i don’t think it’s that funny

play strong radio and smell candelas

bend her a tune

and sing for long-life, for a digestive
biscuit,

              you just have to learn to not take it to heart, she says in the morning
and yamma’s bed creases inside

organs above half-ferns

breathe baby, breathe

it’s like, pleasure

why do you look at me weird?

when do you eat chocolate?
move this frame for me

just one job for you dear

now that you are fresh