By | 1 May 2017

I am young but I have money like a grandmother.
Do you remember seeing that paleface for the first time?

Yes, no. Face is trying for openness,
passing anti-expositional afternoons.

Fieldwork is a bound time.
I am designing an entrance, I am choosing to use it.

Youth here sometime tastes of sitting-down.
On the any-way road, the cab thick with tail fat.

Spider is needing that half-kilo of sugar.
We don’t ask it back just because we gave it away.

When we are needing sugar we yell suga-suga!
Age here sometime tastes of exhortation.

Can I Can I Can I? And rarely no,
but the face can shut down.

These are bright days.
I’m saying that literally,

and actually, Can I? is a pale formulation.
Say it in a sing-song, get that sugar back.

Sometime bodies are needing food or money.
They are walking to the fire, they are yelling the noun.

Sometime a noun and I don’t want to give it.
Twenty-dollar, fifty-dollar, ten-dollar, jerry-can,

Nungarrayi, power-card, Nungarrayi, those kids
are hungry for pizza, drink, lolly-lolly.

I am asking my questions and the answers are any-where.
I feel burned and I give it away,

watching something stirring. Tinned things stirring.
Face is close to the fire.

Wince is a face word. Singe is a hair word,
pale sensibilities hungering the exit.

Try to cool out in the ingenious windbreak.
Eating Spider’s killer next to the car-body.

Obligation is total.
No sorry for a face with its eyelash singed white,

because under the blankets and microwaves,
bodies of a scorched story are not saying no.

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