Right here in the middle cat's head part of Australia, right near the eye, we walked. And we walked. And we walked. And as we walked we dirtied our hands on the hides of smooth-barked apple gums and shy black sheoaks and we made our way to the meeting of the local of the NCDU. And for the first time in a long time it was OK that our hands were dirty.
Toes curl at the symbol of wanton liability and disregard behind the face mask, its lack thereof. A cover shielding everyone around from how much mouth breathing goes on when gnarly uvulas and canker sores expose themselves in slackjaw.
Futures keep happening within the grand scream of things. A scram to stream the never-ending steam of boiled cabbage left to fester. There on the table top. There and off the edge it drops.
Idle a few seconds at the first window, staring into the stock boxes and someone’s elbow, before rolling to the next window because some fast food joints don’t use all their windows. Pay, grab the food, drive off. Another lunch served. Another plastic straw you never asked for.
Sunset ushers a golden glow where the day is about to end and the night, the oncoming evening, is ready to be done with as you please. All the worlds in a sense of open opportunities before bed and the snooze strikes at 21:00 local time.
Ducked it for too long, but got caught with that right-eye glaze – that deckled edge on the lens awards cataract wisdom... & not much else. Call it, -tribution: ripped of a prefix and left for dead.
[-W +H]as poetry ever been commissioned to absorb damage adsorbed in the municipal briar patch?
Countrysat, hereness declared. Rows of houses sat on rotted ground. Transpose that sumna -> dodgy foundations for periodontal disease. What pass them slicks lodge in the duodenum to be iron-leached and kerosene swabbed.
Pooled into insignificance, radiant, incandescent, umbra-proof – white wine, half-pills and chemical peels make for healed heads and delayed obituaries.
Cripped and stripped, bare down to the toe knuckles. There, by the sea, across the wharf, we sit. We sip. We spit. Yesterday takes enough of its time getting through, and we're barely on the other side. A smoky haze we've never better seen.
Ratlings, you'll find, are faecal deposits that line your walls and crawlspace. They're so-called because the size is like a small rat, bigger than a mouse, and often come with a tail-like drag. By the time you've found one the waiting period to exit the contract has lapsed.
More shells turn up under the scissored ribbon. More and more everyday. They don't stop coming. They'll never stop coming. You make one joke about Demolition Man your go-to and then like that, everyone thinks you've got a turtle or snow globe type of fetish that needs to be sated.
Industry (Preston School of), locus of such dissatisfaction. Something to be approached gingerly, like an obsessive-compulsive might a rococo tureen.
