The picnic moves in laconic circles the

roast chook, dry and masticated, forms a

pillow. Children aggravate ants at this rug’s

edges ignore The Lobster who, convinced

she is not hollow, is asking to be tickled.

 

You reach up, take a snap obscure the chin & flatter

The Tuckerbox, direct yr gaze to Coffs (probably).

I’m not sure where the whisper starts I am only

sure that it moves from some obscured centre,

stretches outwards in the form of a human wall

that has legs and speaks, tells us:

 

the first step is to remove the sandwich from the cheek

discard familiar anecdotes and replace them with gesture

   high kicks and windmills

   encourage mosh pits /

   infect all rest stops.

 

On yr way there (though destination is debatable)

set fire to posters of Jindyworobaks, riot freely.

 

Target The Eiffel Tower

(not the actual tower)

but the one offering Italian

cuisine now locked in convo

with The Koala or Ram

 

I’m unsure when marsupials became so pastoral.

 

Rip yr children from the eaves of

watery Mushrooms, scold toddlers

declaring a love of ministers and cash.

 

Blithe facades grip dust as if cotton balls

until gofundme cranks up the sausage sizzle

 

(as if without them local economies would collapse

into truth telling, as if a Trout could obscure genocide,

as if a Golden Guitar could outwit Country)

 

enter caravans and impound manuals:

how 2 make yr desert cute, how 2

handle foie gras by campfire, how 2

elicit praise for 1080.

 

Unhinge The

Cockatoo, The

Brolga, The

Galah.

 

Press couch dwellers for the difference between giant and

big, pull off u-turns with grace, on exit discard the constitution

remodelled as confetti

 

the microphone returns, erodes assets and sentiment,

draws a diagram in the dirt, conducts a lecture on

the intersections of gravitas and agitation.

 

You bow out, lock the door, head for

The Prawn, The Stubbie, The Apple

commit to demolition, then

erect a plaque in gold.