My
globe was mainly pink. My atlas, a rash of prudent conquests. When the sun set
over Lygon Limbo Melbourne it had already set on Forever Foreign Field Empire.
Glam rockers came out in hot pink, unblushing. January 26, a non-day. Sleep through
sunrise, line of rose prose. Maybe a spot of gardening, but don’t get burnt.
Coral grevilleas in a vase. If it rains, retreat to browny-pink China tea. Read
about Invasion Day, everyone in a pink fit. Or US elections, a pinko fit. Later
siesta, behind lids a whiter shade of red-eye, a purple doze. No pink
elephants.
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