By | 31 October 2021

on the way to yamma’s
white lines paint the boundary
the fittest tyre on my back
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

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

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