Gig Ryan

His sorceries are boo-hooing a teller, what’s spare’s on the local trots better than breakfast. A win’s the Seychelles or the gurgling Maldives. Going fast. Where the pig-footed bandicoot, the broad-faced potoroo, the gumnut numbat? spooked, bespoke, honor’s in a trapdoor. He stumped up, but crime befell kismet pardon repelled mores coin begat loss.

Emotion scoops the footpath’s velvet edges, estate agents’ bluster calibrates the street’s livability, treeless, ajar with fridges bunked out. Investors wave sheets of sums to air, a tiny computer chalked on glass, loving the artist’s marble noose in adjacent pop-up gallery they might’ve forked out for, but didn’t. It was no use crying now though her vale of tears candies a conquest, with stuck name tag and good insurance that barely cost a sou. A countdown into space echoes, blue lorikeets flit the race and pigeons chew the eaves for reassurance over suckling locals and tourist dandies.