I’ve been listening to Ribs by Lorde, again

& gnawing on my own, things are the same

old, same old, last week

an osteopath massaged the Remutakas out of me,

& on my walk home, I see this hemisphere is just another

stagnant pond, so, like any common frog, I hop

over mosaics of flora & fossils

of gum stamped into manhole covers,

carrying everything against my spine;

watery & hungry for places

that pass me by

on an American Apparel tote bag,

recently, I have developed a phobia of being

suspended in the wrong place,

so I dye

my hair into the antipode,

think pōhutukawas or a tapestry

of possum flesh left to dry

during another of those astringent summers

where I am belly up & florid,

made from nothing but daisy dukes,

& calcified togs chafing

these small brazened nipples,

in the open palm

of a Ford Ranger listening

to a symphony of gulls

dizzied by some far off Americana

where everyone knows somebody

who had an abortion or a drug-fuelled epiphany,

& me? well I chased my reflection

into the eutrophied mouth

of everyone else's wonder

which only gurgled & spat me out

ribs & all.