a star named Sol washes through an ocean named Pacific
a creature named ‘I’ washes through them both
in a rush of green and platinum, slamming through orbit
this surge of blood, minerals and water
burning so bright in space, will you
look at us go!


food of savages

newspapers ritten, wrushed, by nippy little sharks
who thrash for the amazement of idiots
and tell ‘em they’re going to be eaten by bikies
they give us ad hoc charts of bikie colours
so in the moments they come for us, we will know
which clan is eating us
mopping up their marinara with the wads of our torn-off jaws

it’s a good thing to know, so familiarize yourself with the chart
it’s better than looking at the chart of that which
is really going to get you

when your worst enemy is not the mugshot bikie
but the heaped clay remains of the fucker in the opposite bed
projecting his silence like a blunt gong
under the fuzz of the little televisions
the monotony broken with black vomit
but even that becomes monotonous

when your worst enemy is the memory of a camping trip
her laughter in the surf
as it drifts out of sight behind your eyes
or comes to pin you hard against the wall
in the glue of the intravenous night

and then you’ll have to work out for yourself
where the enemy really lives, and walk back through the threshold
onto the beach and take that ground
and stay there