Goths are having a séance
in the Cubby House at Bunnings.
There are Skinheads in the Potting Mix.
Hipsters cook cow penises
at the sausage sizzle. Lowest
prices are just the beginning.
*
Epistemological, Ontological …
I look these words up
every six months.
But I still don’t know
what they mean, not really.
Couldn’t define them if asked.
I think it’s something like
How do I know
that what I know
is what I know?
I dunno. Maybe if Noel Coward
turned it into a song
I’d start to understand.
*
Her poems are never ending
compendiums of comparison,
like pin cushions for similes.
Yes, it’s a nice poetic device.
But you don’t have to detonate it,
like a cluster bomb, at every line
*
There’s a hobo living in the Big Potato.
They can’t evict him,
though it’s made of asbestos.
But he doesn’t care about OH & S.
Someone’s sprayed a dick and balls
on the big prawn
the big banana just got smaller
the big koala is angry
at the crowds drawn by
the big lump of coal
and the big jet ski
and the Big Clive Palmer, with
the café in its head, is looking shabby,
its eyes chewed out by cockies.