this is not a fifo poem

this is not a fifo poem
or a love poem
or a newman airport riddle
it’s a list of brilliant metaphors
listening to a hundred thousand
clive palmers without a face
or an earpiece
goodbye. goodbye.
my drunken goodbyes , wet-eyed
at the edge of this battered country
we’re collecting simple ideas
in haul packs, an endless riff
of cleared spinifex plains
under 50 degree lunch sun
beer, shiraz eyes
taste of pindan, ochre arms wider
than this island of empty white noise
waiting for iron ore prices
to make better sense
like this poem
that refuses to be a poem
a polysemic resistance
of rooftop memes,
of starless slabs of northbridge sky
and now democracy spills
onto freeway bitumen, stationary
a bus lane under construction
and the bikes speed past
another train of slumped faces
scrolling screens, and gone
in this Mitchell freeway carpark
I’m getting a look
from the car next door
its not a good look
and she’s gone
behind the surge
to exit lanes
to an off-ramp
at ocean reef
a turn of phrase
at the lights
then turn left into a driveway poem
that is not a poem
singing goodbye. goodbye.