get your chewing Gum. get Time like a Man in a tin

Frock. in the Field, the naked Butterfly is fending off

the Microscope. a giant Sunflower is roaring Seeds at

the Enemy. it’s Autumn, and the carrot Pickers bend

over. I’ve a Sip of old Religion and it tastes like Paint

Everything is being sucked in. the Apocalypse will be

blue and yellow with a bottled Accent. Years on the

debating Team funnelled into a shouting Match with a

Machine. the Nuns admire my bolt Cutters, the Goats

my Boxers. We had stolen Something, it was the

Anniversary. We had our gold Gloves on, and a hotted

up Wheelbarrow. it was Then or Now. it was There or

Nowhere. it was listen like a Wattle or talk like a Sap

the Ferry the first Conveyance, where We lost a Body or

Two. curious, the English spoken on It. Tourists

Observers of Penguins. Suits worn to genet Plays speak

of going over a Hill, and finding one Tree. There was a

lot of Desert to fang across. Bikes, Dust, Letters from

Doters. They were Poetry, but I had to find … You’d

driven here in a State of Loveliness, but were then

advised of Infidelity, Treason, Infanticide and the

Shooting of a Horse. of a great many dishonourable

Fights. a Silo suffered, some wild Girls started a Ranch

Someone else wanted to go Home. mow the Lawn to

Kingdom come, You thought. the Turkey in the trinket

Shop gobbled under its Breath. We were starting to

situate Ourselves on the Show. I had Walnuts to pelt or

nibble. there were four drag Queens sitting on my Chest

not my Idea of Heaven either. yet We were slowly

annexing History, converging on the peppercorn

Grove that marked the Spot. the Patterning was enlarging

there were no major Poems on Dolphins as far as We

could tell, but with our Teeth in our Ears to stop the

Tears, We weren’t the best Judges. We tried pouring

cheap Plonk on the Soil. We set up Camp. We tried to

read the Grass and our Stock tried to eat it. the Ride was

slow and dangerous. You took your Frock off and I tried

to like You out of it. You ate Mushrooms out of the

Ground now We had fallen in Love: it was Summer. We

had reverted to Diesel; We wrote up Suicides as Cases

and found Everyone living shallow. there were three

drag Queens sitting on my Chest, and Everything an

Oyster or Chisel. the Bus wouldn’t start, there was Beer

and Donuts on the Floor, which wasn’t the best Policy

the Paintings told me More than your Dreams ever did

your Painting of the dead Neighbour, your Painting of

the polar Bear with scared Eyes. a Spanner came in handy

at the Gates. She did not have all her Arm, and the Rocks

hid potential Mercenaries, Windfallers and bull Ants of

the human Type. it had not rained for ninety-eight Days

this was on the Outside. We began to trust those We

knew from the bowling Alleys. We began to talk Tactics

Ideas, ‘What we wanted’. We agreed it was the long

Game. We wanted to still be there in the Morning. I

sewed a Pocket on your Shirt and took ten per cent of

Everything that You put in it. I wrote a Book about lou Reed

to keep me occupied on Lookout. I had been given a lot

of Information about lou Reed from an indiscreet

Source. my Agent suggested We call it a Novel and

change the Name to michael Stipe. I remembered

michael Stipe eating beer-soaked Donuts off a bus

Floor with two drag Queens on his Back. We posed as

Couriers. We drove the whole Way with our Eyes on the

Road. We failed to see the hitching Skeleton. We saw no

wind Farms of chivalric Beauty. We licked the Lizards

and went on, bad Memories of bad Furniture and give

way Signs. Everything within the World is round: every

Move is a Turn. I know that cricket Ground, that rodeo

Site, those lovely tan and white Kangaroos (part Dingo)

the Tank is leaking, We’ll be ill for Days. stay in the Air

as long as You can. burn a grass Circle around You. put

your best Eggs in the Pine. some Parts of my Brain that I

wouldn’t miss. What would You do if your Mother

married a police Inspector when You were just coming

into your Delinquency? declaim Modernists on the

Beach I suppose: to the Lighthouse a Plum, a black

Bough. but We are Nowhere yet, as long as We can see

Houses, Cars. I think about the town Option, as two

Ducks stripe my Vision. yet I know the Hut burnt down

before I was born, don’t I? We have Bases all over the

State. I think of going Somewhere with a Mob, merging

into it: think of hiding under Wildflowers, or using

Bellbirds to tune into the Bush. These are the Uses of

Poetry. it makes You warm, it replaces Cinema, it helps

You put Words between Self and Heart. there’s no

original Poem, it’s all Sequel as far back as We can

remember. We embrace this, for the Loneliness is hard

Enough. the Souls of our Cats power the Gloveboxes

the Souls of our Dogs the Guidebooks. our Vehicles

and Minds are parallel Worlds where the Dead live

You’re bent over at the Creek, pretending to pick

Blackberries but crying. the Radio is pumping ‘Gold’

I can’t help thinking of morning Tea and the Rations

and putting my Frypan in a Mynah’s flight Path, but

instead retrieve the Tofu from the Boot. You make

savoury Lamingtons using Miso and I feel Time go back

or sideways like an elbowed Head. We recede North

making Strudel while driving. the onion Vines thicken

their Bulbs whack against the Windshield. it’s a

Sanctuary of sorts, but so many Escapees, Manatees and

Derros live here, It can also be a bit hairy. palm Readers

yell our Fortunes at Us but We only show them the

Backs of our Hands. We’re only an Etching we yell back

an Etching of multiple Jeans and fluffy Jackets. We’re

Metaphors, Messengers, Hieroglyphs. though We might

bring or mean Nothing but Damage, it’s not Something

We’d give up to Anyone differently iffy. those still wearing

their full ethical banana Skin like They’re god’s

Breakfast can implode on their own. let’s see Who

dissolves if it ever rains, Who breaks up first if it

hurricanes. weather or be weathered. the Stars are not a

Target. if We yearn it’s for the tomato Fields We were

born in. a Cup of Surf and a kelp Biscuit. ave Tarantula

sitting on the Shells that They paid Us. when We get

cracking We’re like a six-legged crow Race: two Feet

on Salt, two more on Glass and two on Sandpaper. a drag

queen Skull in our Lapel for Luck. Lice our Jockeys