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.
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.
If you liked this poem, buy the issue