lolly sweat fingers to secure

me, central to a vortex: song

& dance & colour paraded

against backdrop living in a

slow drip, ever tinny death.

metal to scour undersized i-

speakers, order-baffle so

usual. burlap texta moniker,

once the claim to a kinship

loopy in time’s contraction,

reduced to pelvic puns.

on edit, steve moved to the blue

mountains for the scene. we

think the cat is ‘cuddly’ at

dawn, virtual epilogue of

a future aubade, past tense.

one vagrant property manager

ushered through the mill, still

plaits her hair, sketches out

equality. (unshucked she quits

the lot with a calm email.) who

can blame us for unspecific spite.

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