On the toilet (whitefella magic) or The Vast Void.
When whitefella goes to the toilet
he disappears through a secret door
into a four cubic metre airlock
between existence and the Vast Void.
This is whitefella magic. By agreement
he’s ceased to exist. He has walked
off the edge of existence and no one
left alive mentions anything about it
and no one even says his name,
except with respectful, half-averted eyes,
embarassed, and only if they really have to.
Until he gets back he doesn’t exist
while, over the porcelain hole in existence
he hangs his bum, over the void, not existing,
beyond truth, he does(n’t) shit, he does(n’t).
tea cups clink politely, here where it’s real.
while he carefully wipes out the evidence
with paper that’s spoken of only
in baby-soft, trustworthy, pastel-colour,
delicate tones, wet-strength.
Whitefella then flushes with a toxic bleach-
scented niagra of foaming blue-brightness
denial, and puts the lid back down and goes
back through the door to exist again.
This is a complex situation. Wombat thinks it’s dangerous,
shakes his head, goes on with his lawn-mowing, but thinks
“this whitefella putting holes in the skin of the Dreaming
to shit through, might be dangerous…”