send the sky to your mum over east

huddled rocks, west 

of wherever

the sun hits high, lyndon jnr with overalls on 

and squashed knuckles, the hair on his head like 

festering mice, or like the guy in that commercial 

about cheap stuff, 

L j is saying how the stars fit the flag too even 

to be real, like if they were in that blue ocean 

it would boil white, red, whatever. that many stars, he says, 

any ocean would be boiled death. 

i am sitting and nodding and drinking ice tea, 

and the sun is hot today, 

so i am not really thinking about stars, 

but how the sky should fuck off.