…and a bottle of pills.

Tomorrow’s a guided tour. Today, dad didn’t go to Brisbane. He says there is a storm there. You can never tell-or expect these sorts of things. Slugs, drinking coke. Rolling over in the sun.

“Dad, what’s the deal with Superannuations?”

Lying cheating stealing bastards. I like to run. And run and run. Anxious, exhausted, tired, wasted washed. Washed shirt, clothes, unhinged un hung. Grinding at my moral issues. Son, don’t do things you don’t want to. 

As if communication wasn’t hard enough, we have callus texting.

My hands of uncooked

Meat. Disastrous. Print and footprint that. Sand, lives


With sand. Fear, on the beach. Death and tears. In mine and my mothers eyes. Honest sharing, checking shoulders, distraction pathos, noise and not looking here, there, where I’m going. The grand tour, as I flip into tomorrow. Landing arse and hip first. Eyes like

Sponges. Radical bursting, exploding. Bending like the love of pornography. Hearts and lists of paper fold and fold again in half to smaller and smaller desires. The snapshot of a left. 

No hooks, only tears.

Tearing soggy rock like pages. Like the snow kicked up from the balling Avalanche. Sickness, teary eyed diversions and distraction. Pulling at my body, my wants and love. Folding folding folding. Belly full of pills. Pasts, pasta and frills. Cast off. Regurgitated and photographed. Natured: nurture aside. Let me

Confide in you. In you. In you!

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