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.
1 May 2017