Its Sunday night.
I felt time’s grip.
Loss of fight,
Dirt slope’s slip.

I kicked a ball,
Today, straight up.
Sunshine for all.
Half full cups.

Woke up tired,
Crammed in my car.
Bent and wired,
Seedy, curtained who-are?

You, me eyes that see.
Barely, and bleary.
Dusty, rusty, haggard and wrecked.
Feeling wasted, no self-respect.

What you put in,
Fuel and all.
It under pins
Your every call.

So spent.
Sharp pains.
Mind dents.
Tear, rains.

It was a thirtieth!
Chris. Catdog.
What a wonderful group of late 20 somethings.

Food, fire and barn dancing.

The drive was long-haul. Worth it.
I gave him wine and a bottle of fosters.
It was lame Tasmanian hookups at some stages. I danced and met lots of new people.


“I am what you are” & “you are what I am”.
Beautiful, simple, philosopher, poet, warrior.

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