I spilt milk down my neck –
that’s what you get for drinking from the carton
owl-eyed and tongue-tied at 4am
breathing smoke out the window
sausage-rolled in the covers for warmth.
I spent a good part of today thinking about apocalypse
trying to construct an argument as to why I
would be an asset at the end of the world
for my honours class assignment, I’m pretty sure
this is how to adult.
We roll on through this hazy, hot land
As it lolls innocuously in a bushfire haze
We track the battles fought against its nothingness
The bitumen scars, the power line bondage
The seething green signs pointing their accusations:
Mount Misery, Mount Disappointment, Wail
Centuries of men throwing down their maps
And scrawling desperate, tearful vengeance
Across the papery insouciance in their hands
As the scrub chuckles its glorious indifference.
You may love a sunburnt country, Dorothea
But it doesn’t give a fuck about you.