We pine to be rebirthed like stolen cars
because we deserve it.
(‘Deserve’s got nothing to do with it’.
William Munny, blowing away
Sheriff Little Bob in Unforgiven).
We’re greedy for identity,
if not by theft then legally,
to become the sum of our shopped for selves
all that murderous choice,
all that toothpaste
avalanching from the shelves.
It’s exhausting, this chain gang
chipping at rock to find your voice.
Be nice to just say ‘no. My Authentic Self
fled years ago. Last I saw he kicked in a window
and bounded across the asylum paddock
yodelling into the trees.
I like to think he’s still out there,
living off roasted Quoll, happy’.
But ‘no!’ they say, ‘you must seek
and distil your destined stock
strain the essence to a primal broth
through a stocking of gold brocade
reduced to a thin clear soup of you.
Once you got that you got it made.