A deflated astronaut’s lung

hangs pegged to a Hill’s Hoist

in every other Brisbane backyard,

sapped dry of the Fruity Lexia

that makes you sexier.

This is my swamp

jokes the Brisbanite too loudly

to his confused, clammy neighbour

as they sweat their asses off

through 85% humidity days.

Swap the mud-thick Myers Scottish

with a lilting Day-Knight twang

to the tune of Look at moiiii or

It’s nice. It’s different. It’s unusual and boom!

You’ve got a successful social interaction.

I believe Shrek would feel right

at home here, All-Starring somewhere

in the long, winding backwaters

of our suburban clusterfuck.

This is my swamp, tries our Brisbanite

again to his retreating neighbour,

puzzled by the reference that doesn’t quite land

for his generation. If only translated to:

It’s not the heat that gets ya. It’s the humidity

then maybe they could be friends.

Surely if The Castle was set in Brisbane,

Darryl Kerrigan would take a deep breath

and hit us with, How’s the humidity?

Brissie Shrek would marry Tracey

and practice kickboxing with her in the backyard

under the wheezing astronaut’s lung.

He’d look like a more animated Eric Bana

hulking with sweat and septic

green as the Streets Beach lagoon

we love best at a safe distance.