a pessimist ponders the present state of things

Trains crisscross space like rope or sewing needles

silly string of the fabric we know exists but can’t name

or name fractal or quincunx or schizoid hallucination

when space already overdoes it by a long stretch

and the hail a homeless man portended

between his pleas for an answer

to a blunt, simple, insoluble question

what the fuck is going on, doesn’t come –

he asked you but wasn’t making sane eye contact –

and so he goes into Hungry Jack’s, née Burger King. Forever?

Too high as always, the Melbourne clouds, those charlatans.

Once, Burger King begot Hungry Jacks like Gondwanaland

the littler continents, but then Hungry Jacks climbed back

into its mother for a time, before Burger King begot Hungry Jacks again

and the Lucite signs and the old-growth French Fries packets

and the millions of plastic-coated Coca Cola cups

inviting you to Have it Your Way, and the puzzler placemats

and the logos on the bins inured to the idea that recycling is slathered in cum

the idea that recycling as an idea is slathered in not-quite-hard-set cum

and everything else that was yellow, blue, red, white and in a hamburger bun –

where did it all go? Back to the Fatherland? Motherland? Holy Land?

And Woolworths begot Safeway, who’s only just climbed back in recent times

although some of its double helix still hangs around country towns

markets unprepared, you presume, for such a colossal change

the name of the store it buys its food in can’t just go and change!

And yet those same markets would just as soon froth to say Woolies

and for that reason you’d like to write to the market researchers

whose daughters might have given you blowjobs at some point

whose sons you have might double-faulted against on match point

KFC may be Kayferz, but Safeway isn’t Saferz, so what the fuck is going on?

And the Backstreet Boys begot NSYNC begot Five begot Human Nature

trying to be NSYNC and Five begot a loathing of boy bands

begot begot begot begot…

And Itunes 1.0 begot Itunes 1.1 begot Itunes 1.1.1 begot Itunes 1.1.2

begot begot begot begot…

And TV begot Rear Projection, Plasma, LCD, LED, Stable Tables™

fruit desserts that someone, possibly Satan, decided to sell

in those vacuum-sealed dinners that someone, possibly God, let us enjoy.

And fuel efficient engines begot fuel efficient engines begot engines more efficient than ever before

begot the making of the bands on the commercials, and new Shale Oil fields

begot SUV drivers doing their bit for the environment.

And condoms begot Lifestyles begot Flavoured begot Naked

If you’re wearing naked, you think, then you’re on trend –

condoms begot aging, worthless populations

and yet billions of human beings still begot billions of human beings

and parts per million of carbon still begot parts per million of carbon.

And a brand of apricot facial scrub begot triple their quarterly sales

by inking BOLD NEW LOOK! at the top of a bottle that hadn’t changed

and was made from the same petrochemicals as the rest of the NEW LOOK range –

And wolves of the most treacherous steppes begot Pomeranians

begot shit inside ten-thousand dollar Prada handbags.

And hippies begot smoking factories for Birkenstocks and fisherman’s pants.

And writers begot witticisms begot slogans begot small talk begot profits

begot protests begot placards begot plastics and butcher paper begot death –

And kindling begot birds’ nests begot hatchlings begot fledglings begot birds.

And Spice Girls begot All Saints begot...

…Itunes 11.0.3.

…One Direction.

…B*Witched. C’est La Vie, remember?

They threaten and they threaten, the Melbourne clouds, but, you know.

You know and you think that if fatigue were a kind of virus

yours could be said to have made the city sick

because there isn’t a pebble on the road that doesn’t look tired

because you’re walking with your eyes closed when practical

sometimes when not – in a direction that’s virtually circular

but not quite – you can’t feel the ID in your back pocket

but you can feel your features grimacing at random

grunts of effort escaping from your lips at random.

You think that if fatigue were a kind of human

yours could be said to have undergone a process

of lionisation – as the spirit, the inexhaustible spirit

of a people more washed-out and exhausted than ever before

the spirit of a head of magnificent hair that’s receding

tied back so tightly the skin around it looks blanched

bloodless – the bottom point of a desperate baying star

baying to its deaf or just quiescent moon. You know

you don’t know anything and you’ll never know anything –

maybe instead of whining there’s a figurehead to find –

may b sum body noze how 2 use evry I-phone app??

Complications see you home far later than expected

you go to bed without showering, without scruples

but of course the laws of being don’t allow you sleep –

your feet are squished against the foot of the bed

so hard you can trace the lathwork with your toes

soon your fingers trace it and the blankets are off and it’s cold

then your tongue traces it, then you take the wood between your teeth

chew it as you did your bunk bed rails when you were a little boy.