It’s smoko but nobody knows.
I’m busy sowing chicken salt
So nothing will grow when I’m gone
I’ve got my glass eyes in so
Leave me alone.
The middle distance is best for stress
Third eye theater for the meme pandemic
In that space between there’s not much to see
Trauma shits on your desk where it eats
Then hides in the bush for secret sleep
Perched so close you can see its sunpores
Snoring over the crankum earth
Dreaming erosion, believably distant
You’re sitting alone because comedy’s hard
When Old Mate calls on the big black phone
He’s chewing on leather, he’s all of out boots
He shot all his cattle, his cancer is terminal
Two months he’s been waiting for you
He’s over the moon. It’s dry there too.