i lap up macadamia fuzz in a middle aged stroll of the ‘nature’. espying a roof rack

means change the world instead, or try on sunglasses ingested by a seven-eleven,

or read emily bitto’s poem & feign a partner’s formal awareness. hum,

like mythic solitary couples sparse atop ‘fauna’.
anyway you’re bubbly. & less lcd in spirit becalmed in those spurts. as spun

wool wet suited & vast they find nothing in my head no feeling no tartan

gift wrapping (though such curling patterns fuck around in dreams, wax

semi-porous opinion). a vaseline moment & a ‘perfect’ sticker

affixed to my clothes. all hot, lovely, or so

my jaw speculates.
over to gorgon youths barraging the heads. girls venture further

& nakeder to peruse the bluster. a blyton shark net hole looses seals

& one lone stingray, a smoker, a maverick snorkeler, is fictional.
living bends my spine in & out of that stuporific posture, a useful

talking point. we meandered into the joust talk like sand djinns,

far-limited by day… now bleached into a pathetic fade of umber,
as a footnote of who will hold the mantle? years ahead in what

might be glum future, else bank queues      he stops to borrow

all your stuff – hat flippers coat wallet – with me a carefree grin

they can only breed, then locks under the spume with definite

activity / mindful of things i disappear. awful profundity in the wind.
the huntsman’s legs extended with a passing thunderhead.
our party has become a spider, grappling to predict equal change in feeding ritual.

lime infused tea vomits a vapour of muzak to  our traversal of polarization of

digital means – to move / to get static / to tape ‘obstinate’ & bend it through a

low-pass filter, to imagine only the background level subject matter ever:
irony as a head slap / falling from a car after. you’re a tool.
you could enter into more details. then, there. an academic reference

to richard gere’s rehearsed lines seems slight, in hindsight.

i discovered the tomes on everything (passing forest, firetrails named

after his grave, packets of ‘big things’ & the website to back you up)

but everyone else is incapable of feeling the same awkward.
in houses bereft of for sale signs, boats parked round the side, we’ll straggle

down a murderous side-path not obvious to light. here’s a picnic bench,

a council bin. streaks of wind across some dwindle of bay.

i’m seeking resonance. rub cream into the stings,

& elsewhere, all quarters pleasurable.
the bream flounders under his stern gaze. no worries

blown across, telegraphed as a sentence, whole.