After David Prater


under the plain western sun

we’ll mooch around in low-slung casuals

point to one hidden moon like rich, tenured buddhas

drink coffee like it’s beer then puke on some fish-heads
under the plain western sun

we’ll understand all kisses in the lips of chickens

read no. 5 of 100 only in humbled silence

visit the mini-mart to purchase a shot of rebellion
under the plain western sun

we’ll scrawl rad haiku on budget rice-cakes

hide our darkness in the zone beyond the power-lines

drain our difficult drinks til our glasses are fully half-arsed
under the plain western sun

we’ll rub head-fuzz together and sneeze

possess the day’s rank gutter-hash in a stolen vial

drop the shoulder into rows of empty wheelie-bins
under the plain western sun

we’ll open unclosable brackets of slow-mo yacking

bounce like nurfballs down the hallways of our lives

snigger in our windcheaters like the big game boys we are
under the plain western sun

we’ll out-stare the men with mouths like suitcases

patch our frisky jeans with passé blue bandannas

and we’ll run and run like we were born for fun