1. The dry panini
             Oh no – anything, God but this; this

             crumbed tongue of hideousness whipped

             from iron pants; fatty brains

             oozing prematurely from its mashed skull.
I thought we had made it.

I thought we knew about lunch.
             Now we’re talking, but your eyes seek the inner

             cheese I can’t hide as my tongue flaps arid

             crumbs; feigning homogeny of purpose while a glob

             of truth plops like a seagull crap in your latte glass.


2. Night in the know
             in a dark gridlock;

             clasped fingers squeezing

             dead-end doors where buff barmen toss

             ‘wet kisses’; smirks on ice; tankards of edible flowers

             soused in lime…
You chucked in a dumpling restaurant’s wheelie bin.


3. Into Sedonia
Our neighbour flapped; a flippered beauty queen just crowned, ‘Did you

hear? They’re opening a sourdough bakery! How much better

can Seddon get?’ I didn’t know. I was a disingenuous prat without a lifestyle.

She looked around, ‘I couldn’t afford to buy here now!’

Stuck together 
by direction, we passed that quirky hovel of right-on retro; selling

cotton toys, organic jewellery, rusty bikes, ironic

lamps; plaster cockatoos on wood from the dump; priced: exotic, stilts from

Campbell’s tomato soup cans. Pock-marked signs of rail routes west…

‘I love this shop! I’ll just have a quick look!’ She said. 
I stuffed my muffin from the wrong oven and followed her in

to button-eyes and 50s patterns, just right tops and skirts that said I am, I am, I am, I

picked a ring from the jarring cabinet; should have been smashed glass from heists

stuck up with glue from grandma’s kit… But that wouldn’t stand.

It was nice. How much? Your money and your life…
‘I love those cockatoos,’ she said. It was too much; my head went spare.

‘Oh! Why don’t you buy one, then? It would look great upon a dresser.’

Something wasn’t right; the walls

took a look and hid their eyes. Better dash before the milk goes sour on my step…

Too late. Too late, the crocheted maiden cried.