It’s a garage sale… everyone’s welcome.

Signs all around the neighborhood.
Chalk bread crumbs.
But they don’t guide you out of a forest –
they lead you to my house.

Concentric circles
of my most sentimental treasures
laid out on the lawn.
Zoom in. We see:

a tiny anvil,
a bottle full of feathers,
a broken robot,

a heavy glass paperweight filled with imperfections…
bubbles of air trapped since 1983.

Thanks for coming.
But, i’ve changed my mind.

I want to keep it all.
I’m sorry.

I made all of you promises I couldn’t keep.
Offered love I didn’t have to give.

I mean, to be fair,
you’re only here because you wanted something.

Do any of you even like me?


Broken Stuff

I notice
that’s a little bit broken.

* A wet cigarette.
* Some almost perfectly fine pants at the opshop.
* A waterlogged football on someone else’s nature strip.

And I think… ooh cute.
It’s a bit like me.
It’s only a tint little bit wrecked.

I’ll dry that smoke out;
the wet-on-wet watercolour nicotine stains are kinda pretty.
I’d smoke that.

The pants fit perfectly,
although they’ll probably break
at the worst possible moment
at work – remember to put on underwear.

The bladder in the football is broken,
you can’t pump it up anymore.
But i’ll pick it up
take it home
kick it across the concrete in the backyard.

The dogs will fuckin’ love it.