Julius and August Dennis
Tins, tins, tins. Six pounds of jalapenos, powdered gum and mango melons.
Bulk of anything you can dream of — ‘but don’t get anything in the buckets!’
Zoocs, coocs and carrots please, and are you sure we can handle all this spinach?
Surely. I’ve never bought persimmons in my life but maybe I should at that price.
Every culture worth its salt has a go-to flat bread, and this place has got ‘em all.
It looks better when the suns out, but it’s heaven at 3am.
Twenty-four-seven-three-sixty-five. Stuffed, spiced and left in brine.
Little India bricked inside a cartoon,
Tin Tin takes a rocket to the moon fifty years later.
The old man is angry about his scone.
It isn’t even burnt, just browned.
Plus, it’s the last one, so he’ll have to settle.
Wally is only hard to find among his peers, and these places are a dime a dozen without a splash of colour.
It’s always so hard to tell if the plants are alive,
but here they drink water in the Brisbane sun like you and me.
Saturn Devours Pomegranate Seeds