By | 1 August 2014

the intro credits font crumbles to a song
it’s a galaxy of concern, one wherein you
lack air. the scenery comes frosted. tell me
your times, specific bare feet on the floorboards:
locate it, see i’ve got you for real here. it’s always
sunset in a vastly specific landscape, sadness
expunged, actors squint-eye against kissing,
a skirmish of light & dust. in our pillow universe
my robotic arm reveals paddock whorls;
your July 4 stocking run is the sun, wan &
bullocky, softness country’s aura & astrological
guidance. waves roil all about, under the radio,
a bristly phalanx. there’s me! through the curtains
with specific flashback: in gaudy analogue colour
saturation – a milky additive – & we’re huffing
into a sense of parallelism (naming rights
go missing, ground to some militant pulp).
step into this pre-loaded career & come,
come further past altitude sickness, lost
in the routine of finger-spinning old records,
all things slightly small like me in a room.
my thoughts: everything. coins dripped
in a bucket atop a median strip. you’d
like that. this was shot generationally
or by degree, a quotient of time, drawn
up by the window with you excluded,
you emended from classification.
it’s systemic while we’re in transit,
all the feels at bay, distance-stares
sapped of flavour, winter watermelons.
i’m often on location culling friends. like you,
cold in the dew, middleground to crystal focus,
light behind, hair pulled specifically back.

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