Walking through Camberwell while the Bushfires

1 June 2014

There is a something; orange orb;
a fluro zorb blood orange’n
blurry. corpuscles, violent yellow’n
red like smorg, eye of smorg, smorg ablaze
like a pink pink hot pink nike pink

run fast, 13-minute-lap, pink and a question:

What would yogi doona a knife’ight?
What if air’s two’n one is t’win?

skip (ya right?)

to the empty shops on the dry side, the east
of Burke Rd (yeah?)
[each has a local, and a septic liver, west, past Cremorne]

Sensing desperation on your writing & tetra-chroming down the hill
Stopping in the floodlamps (rabbit stopping, staring), bag laid:
vacant block’n shagging through the chain wire’s yr straw bed:

Yr an Ariel – hold on – written by a maker:
Yu quote and note t’change t’your – meaning their –
own words, on the cnr where bored kids drive beamers
far & fast.
An easy one three five degrees
And you just fill the gaps.

Bush fires; haze; death.
Cancel them and call it the
ceremonial scrubbing Lucifer avails
the wallaby mystics; Ophelia’s
apocalyptic howl for a Narcissus,

in all events.

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