(discounting the Coriolis effect)



The antipodean plug lies in a pool, like any other

plug, any other pool, where breasts dunk and voices

drown with the universal two-bob watch.
Nonetheless, a garden gnome or a kangaroo shadow

is plastered into a corner. A painted ear

sprouts a mullet, an AFL flag and a 60s song.
Space is taken by exclamation marks instead of

words or “ah!?”, with pawpaw vaudeville spilling

its guts alongside the oil monster’s teeth.
And landscape looking like toast is topped

by blue wren with worm, on a coast lined

with lashes and strokes, the Australian Crawl.
It is tidal rather than epiphanic, full of blurts

and gurgles, a frenzy of gold drapes discloses

dynamite, a dash of IT, a shout of the white stuff.
The immunity of litter is where the ends

have bled into space, time and a chlorine pool

in transmutation of the surface, blue existence.
Tough your way out of the map via a house of

ain’ts, of club riddles and perks, a terroir of tears

on the coast, and naked lights on whirling hills.