This
is a reminder
to the city's citizenry
of who we are
and what we do
and why we'll always be that
ignorant
imperfect
neo-boho eccentricity
that swims against the current
on the cusp of domesticity

We are the sometimes-forgotten middle-children of Brisbane
We are white and yellow and light and dark brown
We dwell
in the secret places
of this town
In the tangled, perplexing spaces
between your toolshed and the back fence
on the cusp of domesticity

We are the in-betweeners
the keepers of the lore
the last lost remnants of the night before
We are the covert catalysts of creativity
antidotes
to this sick city's soul captivity
the absent notes in your poliphonies
polinators of ephiphanies

We know this town
far better than we know ourselves
We are the uncredited muses behind a billion bookshelves
We don't need clocks
We measure time in shadows and smiles
Twenty-storey office blocks
are our personal sundials
and while
you're wrestling with land tax and
stamp duty
we're catching mud crabs 'mongst the mangroves down by QUT

We are secret love poems
written in the silty sand beneath the Story Bridge
at low tide
We are the homeless busker
on the corner of Brunswick and Wickham
We are Four Triple Zed at two-thirty in the morning
We are the Mercedez-hating antiauthoritarian pigeon that strikes without warning

But you
You think us awry
You think us unnecessary
You think us unbeautiful
Because we know streets not by names but by the texture of the bitumen so this
is a reminder
that we are the logical, necessary by-products of the world you've constructed
a reminder that we are not parasites
but symbiotes
the latent patient revolutionaries who in the end will save you from all manner of rodent marathons,
we
are ignorant
imperfect
eccentricity
the only natural predator of cliche
and we are here to stay
and we will always be
see you need us,
just as much as we need you,
maybe more

we are the last lost remnants of the night before.