Eternal, infant vision.
The bitter ant scent
washed in via the wafting sugar storm.
A waiting collision between norms.
It’s mid-nineteen-nineties Australia.
Life at ease.
I see no changes.
A world within worlds,
curled in the bosom of pleasant mediocrity.
Genius rarely rumbles here
because there are no fans.
Contemplation melts in boiling stagnation.
The streets are bare; no gorgeous infatuation.
Instead there exists a porcelain nation.
Sitting quietly on the shelf.
Don’t move anything,
don’t change anything.
You might break this space.
You might challenge this race.
One point: I’ve just written and uploaded two poems (this is the first one one) about mid-nineteen-nineties suburbia. This is the negative poem. The other is the positive.
This poem came to me whilst cruising around the suburbs of Western Sydney this afternoon.