Let us imagine that New South Wales is a paper folded in the pocket

of a young motor mechanic on a Harley Davidson
He’s torn it from a magazine from an article Called: “There’s nothing

like a really good day in America”
While it’s light he tries to make as many miles as he can (occasionally

converting into kilometres) And by night he’s pre-booked into a series

of motels where the restaurants sell steaks and nobody lets you drink

alone
While it’s light he tries to make as many miles as he can (occasionally

converting into kilometres) And by night he’s pre-booked into a series

of motels where the restaurants sell steaks and nobody lets you drink

alone
In the end they went back without him But never really came home

because he had where they lived close to his chest the paper wearing

thin and being just the place for a love letter (or perhaps a few words of

reminder)
We heard that adve n t u re mistook it for his heart and tore it fro m

corner to corner But the old bloke he worked with who is still hanging

around the space where Marrickville once was Says:

He used to work for me and

didn’t do much

Then I worked for him and

did everything

It’s funny

He was a bloody good listener
(The wind still whistling past his ears

The human form of emptiness