(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.
A Minuscule Map of the Country
1 February 2013