there’s no point to owning a country

if you can’t look after your own hair

the tv burped    the weeks broke up like packets

of biscuits    we swept through them on the way

to the bus stop    holidays were full of conjunctions

forget the piles of prepositions    i ate crime novels

with a plate of siestas    my signature slid around

like a post-mexican wave; the insects were almost

worse than centrelink on every windowsill after

dark    the film about the poet with a neat little

notebook no crossings out was too cute for

words    i got sunburnt in the shade between

the mango and the bacon    the soles of my best

$200 sandals fell to pieces like archived echoes

during a free speech on heart attacks    send

a photo to our address in the bible belt advised

the manufacturer    the dog didn’t eat the housework

it just got lost    time to vacate the vacation    i forgot

that my new super dental floss is not an astral chord