Everything will be okay for your landlord

By | 1 September 2023

You are what you eat so if you see me munging
on a hypertrophied human arm in the wee hours
behind a sand dune, no you didn’t. Excuse me
while I shimmy into something a little less knowable.
Speaking of which, close all your eyes. Flood your
mouth with saliva. Hold it. Allow your hand to fall across
an expensive bottle of sun cream. Listen for the city
laughing at its buildings. Now, be a darling

and spit. You are what you eat so I guess it’s time I ate
myself? Nom … nom … nom?
I want to tell you so many things but my teeth
fly out of my face at warp speed. Not enough hours
in the day, which is to say conduct a prayer ceremony for
Search Engine Optimisation by washing your horrid bathmat
and use it barefoot straight out of the dryer so nice.
It’s bin night so there’s that to look forward to as well.

This message and everything on this page
is an ad. Go here to end. Stub your second biggest
toe on the corner of the post office. (Required.) Nobody
tells you the itch is hereditary, that the link is coming from
inside the biography. If you like this, you might also like
the headache from eating ice cream too fast. Sit back and
look at the word going and say it out loud in the style of boing.
Play the Theremin with a boneless puck
          of chicken.
You are what you eat so I guess it’s time I ate an exhausted
whoopie cushion? Summon onomatopoeia? In this climate?
Sir, this is Wellbeing Wednesday. Let them eat pizza. Nom, nom,
nom, etc. I might be two-faced but I wear one snood. Why are we
always doing things? You know how you hurtle
          umbilical turn numerical
I’m wondering if you might do that one more time
          with no feeling. Recall the erupted fog.
So very un-fog-like to erupt, isn’t it? Why are we always
doing things that could be interpreted as symptoms? We are
almost never in a helicopter orbiting a multi-story casino or
rissole? What’s with that? Shell fragments and slow sand
          stuck in our ears. A few more payslips
and we can start applying for a new

place. You are what you eat so eat your friendversary? It is
easier to imagine the end of capitalism than a dry bathmat so eat
a dry bathmat? The trouble with nightmaring across a field
is the desire to smooch your own fractures. The thought of a
list. A trapped nerve indexed. Onlookers gasping in awe. Failed
empty file. Cossid larvae pattering the linoleum like big rain. Coins
dumped in the sink. Is this loud enough? Everything will be okay
for your landlord. Disappoint the oldest person you know by texting
them: Sorry but I can’t make it tonight. I’m a graphic designer. The sky
splitting up like parents. You have memories to look back on today
(content unavailable right now). This message and everything on this
page is bad. Hold me close and

lol. What in the unsanctified insularity brings you here? Anti-ageing
agent? You can run but you can’t Dow Jones. You are what you eat
so eat the rich. haha.

                                                  See also: ha. You think this is funny?

This is a serious recipe for a hotdog made out of the same stuff as
a black hole. I want to tell you the story of the ocean trench at the
bottom of the deepest single use plastic bag. Today I have a caffeine
headache in my ass. Tomorrow you will enter a room carrying
nothing but crisp impermanence. How very dare you. I’ll have you
know days perish. Road tar softens. An empty cup suggests
water. There’s always a cloth getting dry somewhere. 3.4 billion
financial years ago a blob in the sea was the first thing to react to light.

          Thanks blob. You were cool.

They say you are what you eat so eat a billionaire in space?
In space no one can hear you in space. Can’t remember anything
else. Can’t even remember what is like

          eggs in the presence of hailstones.

Can’t remember a single thing.

          Can’t shake the thought that when I smile
          I’m manipulating muscles to expose a piece of my skull.

This poem appeared in Secret Third Thing by Dan Hogan, published by Cordite Books in 2023.
A video version of this poem was a finalist in the 2020 Queensland Poetry Festival Film + Poetry Challenge, which can be viewed here.
‘You can run but you can’t Dow Jones’ is a reference to the line ‘You can run / but you can’t / aquarium’ from Stingray Clapping by Andrew Choate.

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