James Lucas

A ute erupts from gravel skid, / no match for the drunken / matador who slaps the bonnet // off his hip.

Even The Darkest Hour Lasts Only / Sixty Minutes says the billboard / at the Moss Vale Church

The poem at this point might have headed // nowhere, or in various directions, but settled / in a carpark cum beergarden

Fruit machines accept all cards for very punter / there’s an addict doorframed, they punctuate the street / as in a Florence gallery when restorers airbrush out / aureole and child to foreground areolae puckered / for remedial teething, too pure or too stoned / for lewdness