the hat was a little too smug the morning turned into a bug with my freehand i waveddown a fastspeeding car and poured into the door from a jug the morning incredibly thin the sun scuttled up with a grin the black leather bag with its money and buckles hung grasped by the scruff in the wind the driver spun round in his seat controlling the beast with his feet his face looked sarcastic but covered with plastic his tung was a sprung slab of meat i was sprawled in the back of the cab like a lazy and arrogant crab i would sit sigh and smoke and i'd frown at the bloke and hark half and ear on his yab going we were going to get throwing my caution at sun set escapee of the entry fee breathing the air slippery wet
this poem is called S.K.P. like “escapee”. it’s written about a non-story i lived or imagined in sydney australia. when it rained i felt something special there.
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