Birth of Astroboy

By | 3 February 2024

Midmorning Sunday the mall
is dead. Too young to be hungover
in bed we hang on the rotunda steps
like temple monkeys in the sun.
We chip in—score a stick,
smoke up in the alley,
pass the pipe from lips
to lips, smuggle a backpack
of Macca’s into the art-house cinema
where Astro Boy’s dad is mad
his son won’t grow up. Man—
he doesn’t know shit.

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