Tug_Dumbly

 

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.

 

 

 

Check the neatness

of the homeless

under Glebe rail bridge –

to each their own arch

open plan, plein air

here a brushed tent

a swag-bed rolled

camp bed made

cardboard pantry

wardrobe trolley.

Minimilists

before their time.

A ragman’s bike

a spirit cooker …

what’s to declutter?

what forsake?

 

Arty bastards.

 

         yes

        even

     the gravel

looks Zen raked.

 

You’re tidy shamed

by a pair of shoes

in the spick & span sun

a’bask in the arch

so sweetly arrayed.

The dirty mercy

of house proud poverty

don’t need no maid.