Fields
of the Ovens Valley are ploughed over for other ends. Boxes covered in diseased
lung and enflamed throat massage the meaning. Melbourne carparks are littered
with them. All yesterday’s parties are smoke. While today only a March Hare or
Marlon Brando fumes, wisdom dictating it’s either stupidity or rebellion. Both,
most times. We burn for life. Boxes then had pleasurable alpine vistas or salty
sailors to tickle our vanity. We were too tough to care. The Preacher had a
hack who went on life support. He didn’t run out of things to say, he just ran
out of puff.
No comments:
Post a Comment