By | 1 October 2015


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.


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

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