filling glasses to an equal level, quantifying sex,

it’s harbour-life. when we walk we progress.
overcorrecting my hair for the wind

& you say ‘this flower smells good to me’.
my Melbourne-centric smile my pronouncements

more purposeful, fairness is the key to my mind.
cobbled transit disputes & i have so many red shirts. 

the minister pulls her suitcase on wheels as you’re
thinking tourism campaigns are always so needy:

like the average number of times we kiss. 
but in all fairness: high frequency selection is the

default, an outlier clear-headed in a street-brawl, 
worrisome with smiles. her fingernailed opinion on film

with bolshevik dreams & five dollar beers this parlour

 

sideboard, some curios & vanilla extract at hand:

the so-called rich! i am from the dried waterfalls’
valid swamplands realm.  i am my own median

& fitness down here is fairness (it’s the key). 
i’ll never write code now. nothing is appropriate

after strolling the gardens of the world.