They take some responsibility for your precipices,

as much as following ought to raze the civic.

Largely, however, obligation, smirking, abides. 
*











Wanneroo drive-thru of the talking cars.

It makes the terminations of diversity seem ternary,

that is, complexly coded, which they are. And it gets worse

with the arcade, that expensive oasis of winning diversion,

but the hand is not propped to the head, hence not meditating.
Trainee, fertile ethical puck and jailer, take suit of purpose.

The winnings spread evenly between the chance workers,

who dissolve with winning. The managers especially

fledge themselves with sovereign contempt, is their cope,

but this is bought, is phenomenal and not spectacular.

Trade you my forklift licence.
*











Great Eastern Highway, its galleries.

Hume Highway, Pitt Street; elsewhere. 
Less than spectacular, the marmoreal recess

reserved for revolutions of sterile crystal ball

paperweights of a tedium quotient celebrated

as the self exposed from the crowd

by live vivisection; if you yourself can show your guts

for what they are, lancing them with this rictus audit.

Maybe your military are not returned to victory

or nirvana, but are gravely alive to the autobiographies

of marginal parole Canberra, or elsewhere.

When I blow a gumleaf, it’s an instrument.
Sad on many of the in-roads. Nearby, though,

solipsism heights.
*











I saw the motorcade dazzle with ribbons that year.

The universe is a miniature, when you ride Eastman’s line,

westerly at least the genesis of erosion,

like an apnoeic turn, calumniates the brow,

if only to sign it pain.

Guilty of fading, turned away from time.

Midday, she is rubbing the forehead now to wake,

somewhere, somehow, in time.
Trainee, you are not at peace

but you are always well-dressed.

Should I shake Burley Griffin’s hand

it would be with the kid glove of the trainee,

parked in the trainee’s car

with the trainee’s car deodoriser swinging.

You are never really working, trainee,

virtue, maybe, but punctual, accidentally

beginning the dictation which is proof.

Should I shake his hand.
But she does not wake, the dazzle under the folds

renders superfluous the shire of the valley.

Bushfire smoulder stymies cataract ogling valley.

Roleystone, again. Of the busted crown, she first points out

a coming explorer who is actually a speculator,

who works selectively for money, knows no journalism,

no other reason approaching than toward

the prerogative of selection.
*











The shaman’s electrolytes wane

when the betablockers shriek.

Chemist, he is propped like a clown, but his romantic life

is forever mystery. Bleached paperbacks shiver

for memento’s sake

when his wheelchair banks and the rafters sharpen.

Trainee’s nervousness eases, the manager stops lecturing,

avoids his cigarette, then the ombudsman

calls. Certitude legible by the lids, why in privacy

candour is inappropriate and you are essentially lying

to yourself suffering, but keep a filing system on the present

locations of the caravan park. The caravan park

is very enthusiastic, has a long drafted history of presents.
Presence. Plural presents unfolding drafting unfolding presents plural. 
Moonshine and nudity follow suit like KGB false memories

and a general Cold War relief, if it wasn’t for the declassified

McCarthy. Aitken wonders how many tears collect

in the phone. Turn to the zombie fictions for the chronicle

of the Western’s final parallelism: a West parallel with West.

Find a real shore.
So, his adoption to our supernumerary redoubt, which can only

claim sebum as a concertina moat, clashes with polite society,

and it isn’t long before our adoption is given the name Palestine.

Much of our politics gathers the deleting name.

So many dead leaving sinecure; hydrate more to make

sure the punch hits jelly and absorbs the universe.
Her hand is propped to her head.

Is this melting or thinking the prop.

Compass, stylus, VCR or GPS device, she is perfectly calm.
*











What did the old fool teach you that dissolves?

Though leathers for spacious spooled flesh

make the Great Eastern highway distinct from the lecture,

the domestic from the landed, not entirely timber.

Woods for the acetone of course, and the methylated,

the windbreak will keep children’s certitude warm

now that the lunar is less popular than, frankly, the void.

Titian and Darwin imagined, so K and Hamlet,

I ask Portbou,

Montserrat is no treaty when treat is evacuation

is caves of ice, antres dark, and in toto.

The gasket imploded on course to flight from all else.
Having been to rehab, the authenticator is conscious

that documentation is the threshold the nineteen sixties

Fluxus breaches when rushing through it in

three canvases. World fascicle breach. But the authenticator

likes, for example, dilation, red eyes and cheeks, candid bones,

whittled ears, the inversion of peevishness, the pallor rose, 
Chelsea, Balmain, elsewhere.
When the papers put out the hit on his capture, and the tall man

toppled by style and hygiene becomes a lintel

in the renascence arch, which isn’t as parodic as it wanted to be,

the graffiti engravings get kind of serious, and kind of

indicting, if stentorian intention technology taciturn.
*











The proximity to celebrity is celerious and,

like Putin’s truth serum, savoury,

lathering a dangerous guinea pig

for transpacific courtship,

making both hemispheres mutually seem sad

and irreconcilably asymmetrical.

Trainee, play some music before you’re torn to bits

and I become a twin cam.

Trainee, forget the songs from childhood,

don’t you remember the bees swerving for callistemon?

It’s often the moment you try a hypnagogic move

that you fall asleep, speaking up or inhaling,

or snore stuttering referendum. 
The taxi rank poll, a queue, thrives with sleepers. 
*











She isn’t awake, but the story of her dreams

structures the kaleidoscope ciphers

resembling this genetic history of commons,

when exposed as cardinal.
Newtown’s crowd was silent at the peak of its throng,

there is so much commonality in certitude. 
Views of the streets from the streets street-view.
The cars come in unpainted and unprogrammed,

the documentation is timed, not signed.
Actually, boredom and the quorum are doing famously.

Watch: 
The vanishing point returned rotten

It was conscious, and Jupiter nursed the solar

System tampering, setting

Noun antiquity centripetal, good enough

All the wine I need to drink

To throttle the voice

I’d like to put him on trial for each compulsion

He foists when he leaves early

For quadrivium

He might be sprung, call it sprung esteem

If I was there for 1P/1982 U1, 1986 III

I hope more to be there 28th July 2061

If only to mark the tiny limits of his avenues

Perforce his churlishness

I am not a fontanelle

But a vacuum and an island mouthpiece spun

It’s the snore that starts the cramp,

Between the capstones the bougainvillea

But I’m mostly sad about the universe

But only because the universe is a diamond

When I ask for lead or sulphur

It’s his head melts with lead and burns with sulphur

A system sings the melody I prearranged

For Palestine’s renascence, but over time

Something more like a Doppler drag takes over

There hasn’t been melody for ages

In fact, I think a tone from petroleum jelly

Was high-jacked at my birth

They called it melody, but it has long been

Sebaceous ocean crystal

Suddenly Stravinsky sounds generous

And romantic; he wants me to dance with him

I might I think dance with jelly
I might I think dance with jelly

And romantic; he wants me to dance with him

Suddenly Stravinsky sounds generous

Sebaceous ocean crystal

They called it melody, but it has long been

Was high-jacked at my birth

In fact, I think a tone from petroleum jelly

There hasn’t been melody for ages

Something more like a Doppler drag takes over

For Palestine’s renascence, but over time

A system sings the melody I prearranged

It’s his head melts with lead and burns with sulphur

When I ask for lead or sulphur

But only because the universe is a diamond

But I’m mostly sad about the universe
Between the capstones the bougainvillea

It’s the snore that starts the cramp,

But a vacuum and an island mouthpiece spun

I am not a fontanelle

Perforce his churlishness

If only to mark the tiny limits of his avenues

I hope more to be there 28th July 2061

If I was there for 1P/1982 U1, 1986 III

He might be sprung, call it sprung esteem

For quadrivium

He foists when he leaves early

I’d like to put him on trial for each compulsion

To throttle the voice

All the wine I need to drink

Noun antiquity centripetal, good enough

System tampering, setting

It was conscious, and Jupiter nursed the solar

The vanishing point returned rotten


In Belfast, there is certainty of a trickle

which is a tirade. The elephants abominate early sparkle

to swollen innocence, the tarp for the sports car

hides all of the stag beetles at the biconvex meniscus
of Lana Turner and Lana Turner

in the paranoid projection of self in fifties and void
World another matter which does not resemble America

but a quaint acre, which in every way is a failure
the falser history of all nameless beginnings

at lawn, not bitumen 
At bitumen the glass, the glasses,

the vitreolalia of the quake of near-future
corpuscles of vision shunting and burbling

gasping for truth, but at Belfast there is a certainty
of a trickle which is a tirade

The Southern Ocean is mostly ongoing
and snarls like a Rottweiler, pumice driveway

is the first lottery 
There aren’t any more lotteries

I wish the cinema was funnier, and not just funnier than
it is but funnier than it once was, because

there is always a moment in Buster Keaton where
eloquence of form smirks. Smirks are not funny.

Is it only the big events, like a falling house, that matter
I don’t want to emulate a single modern comedian

in this ballroom of deadpans of history, though the stopped
watches in crystal might be enviable

The dumbwaiter is a person 
I had no idea

It is the first machine, which a pulley rates late in,
so I have confused the bodies of events,

but not many houses have, thankfully
but not many houses have, thankfully

so I have confused the bodies of events,
It is the first machine, which a pulley rates late in,

I had no idea
The dumbwaiter is a person

watches in crystal might be enviable
in this ballroom of deadpans of history, though the stopped

I don’t want to emulate a single modern comedian
Is it only the big events, like a falling house, that matter

eloquence of form smirks. Smirks are not funny.
there is always a moment in Buster Keaton where

it is but funnier than it once was, because
I wish the cinema was funnier, and not just funnier than

There aren’t any more lotteries
is the first lottery

and snarls like a Rottweiler, pumice driveway
The Southern Ocean is mostly ongoing

of a trickle which is a tirade
gasping for truth, but at Belfast there is a certainty

corpuscles of vision shunting and burbling
the vitreolalia of the quake of near-future

At bitumen the glass, the glasses,
at lawn, not bitumen

the falser history of all nameless beginnings
but a quaint acre, which in every way is a failure

World another matter which does not resemble America
in the paranoid projection of self in fifties and void

of Lana Turner and Lana Turner
hides all of the stag beetles at the biconvex meniscus

to swollen innocence, the tarp for the sports car
which is a tirade. The elephants abominate early sparkle

In Belfast, there is certainty of a trickle