Pink Sun - by Toby Fitch

ISLAND | ISSUE 159

         at peak hour
                  pink sun
         black sky
                 you’ll fly back
         to God’s country
though not before your mates have
dry-cleaned your SUV of ash and drizzle
looks as though it’s been off-piste
or pissed off for the first time in its life
its redacting windows address
and quash the rumours
it shunned the inner-city craving
lunatics who’ve made the clink between
climate change and the champagne
flute you blow hot tunes into
charming our cricketers to play through
hail or shine with a new ball
         at peak hour
                  pink sun
         black sky
                 you can return now
         for eternity
’cause you’ve stood up with the Hellsong
hung loose and come out the other
sideline without a hose
to fan the arson online with
cooked roo matching
the way you beer every burden
yet still leave time to cash in
on the outskirts
milk the handshakes of town just look
at the beautiful housing bubble
blooming and pearling as marbled meat
         at peak hour
                  pink sun
         black sky
                 you’ll fly back for Sydney’s
         sparkling water
as soon as there is sufficient
smoke to warrant a state
of emergence for your massage
to be stage-managed not just spun out
or rubbed into the streets
bottlenecked as they are with the international
think tanks and school kids who can’t even
go back where they came from
be disappeared as fireworks gold
in the frying-pan night
pure enlightened and woke
how good’s Eternity
blazing across the bridge now that
was a bonza campaign
         spread like wildfire
                  where the bloody hell are ya
         peak hour
                  pink sun
         black sky ▼

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An earlier version of this poem appeared in Island 159 in 2020. Order a print issue here.

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