Causal movement, sturdy wheels moving against the wind as an early winter grips hold of a late autumn.
Lynch gasps for air, hungover site, cooked it up for a birthday pop.
Up and with it, with the world, with the willing.
Appropriate to be mad, to be outcasted as a spook.
Sprout a thought, en route to a pile of surfboards, amplifiers, and scraps of leftovers. It’ll be diverse, the pile. It’ll be unique, there’ll be folk around the pile, there’ll be a banter of fire.
Swagged beneath kookaburras, laughing at us, with us.
Trees that hold their green through cold frost nights.
Zip open my morning, to get going, “Ellis, wake up,” the sun still hiding.
Grab your blockers, let’s go.
Morning Parkes, morning Wade, morning to the pile…
