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.
1 August 2014