33°51′58.1502″S 151°12′47.739″E


Do you know, master Trim, that you have behaved very ill?– Matthew Flinders

Your ferrous gaze fixes between 229-231
Macquarie and occasions
where the busted sit – fuss daily, brown and broke

into. Fish which Christ got done for. One flight below – tuna, tako, roe
 – pregnant wombs of kewpie doll mayo
chart fathoms of hydro-cartography, 

concoct disappearing skits
like they was Houdini and your belly
a true spoon-bender with quite the knack 

for abracadabras in raw pisces. Sixteen pieces
(years) of munt, fags, their butts, patina and want
you’ve all but prized open with sextant

There’s a maki roll down there somewhere
… you just know it. To be
in Wooloomooloo: ain’t got no tobiko for you, puss-puss.

No, Sydney’s habitué is no moriawase
There’s rollerdoors to keep you out. 

View this poem on The Disappearing »