1.
You’re not to this world

but will sleep in the depths of dream,

pat news, cast chat,

as tenants grind chemistry’s waved night to a flask

and galaxies ping time back

to tree-thrilled square,

or cross the lake tomorrow
out to sky’s unearthed racks,

the phone a bill, or writhing messages in garnished harangue.

A predicament’s sequence like a suburb cut with freeways

clusters at the music fair –

each tune’s mock funeral to love and love’s loved bitterness

while a van’s Pop Goes The Weasel continuously passes.


2.
Car’s barbarous pitch stomps the dealer’s sporting ensemble

that twinks neck chain against blue-toothed ear

assignation for a drop he goes Tucker’s good ad nauseam

a flail of it, cap and sunnies, butts a gasper

at the church’s two-tone guillotine panes

that shine on mourners queued to kiss

the block-slot limos, and then the school’s pepper trees,

glabrous errors then, have but not want again,

coiled magpie too dappled time out of the question.
Coburg’s blue and red cars wind the roundabouts

the halt neighbour doesn’t anymore slowly walk.

Kittens scatter like broken glass

as if some hi-vis local doesn’t talk

just throws it

Curtained trees ooze him away she says