Wheelie bin juice

it’s fuckin hot out today we sweat at each

other, perspiring punctuation; this is my

sentence and i am lying on the dying lawn

like death row. another day in another

tank watered garden variety backyard we

dream, draining the dam dry trying to get

the sticky off our skin until guilt sets in; staining

our limbs like bathing in cordial, we are an

island girt by cicada thrum. the drone of cut

grass never stops, all two stroke exhaust, a

blue collar man’s suburban blade dance to

the goddess of something greener; a domestic

picks up half a block away, odd words perforating

welcome soft breeze as the wheelie bins join in,

kick up a stink of their own. meanwhile, back

on the ranch we roast alive; i lean and reach for

the tap; dig your own grave you concur, preferring

to take the anthroposcenic route together. sprinkler

on, eyes closed, tongue out and devout in prayer

to whatever.






Liz Duck-Chong

Liz Duck-Chong is a writer, sexual health nerd and filmmaker who has had articles, poetry and essays in a range of publications, including previously in Overland. She co-hosts wholesome sex ed show @letsdoitpodcast, and is on Twitter at @lizduckchong.

More by Liz Duck-Chong ›

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