Freedom looks like 

Unfurling the bloody flag 

from the mast 

of your third-hand Toyota LandCruiser; 

 

Jolly Roger visage 

staring down the infinite 

of backroad warrens and farmyard burrows. 

 

Firecracker blazing across the Milky Way; 

Southern Cross glaring down from above, 

the powerless gaze of teachers and parents. 

 

Freedom sounds like 

The Rebel Yell: 

 

Yesteryear’s gods and idols 

immortalised on bootleg discs 

and coursing through your crappy stereo. 

 

Or maybe, 

it’s more like, 

 

synthetic rhythms and electronica; 

sounds devoid of context and meaning, 

leaving only some raw mix of lust and fear. 

 

Freedom smells like 

The woody smoke of the firepit, 

suffusing your clothes like spilt ink. 

Marking you as its own 

 

as the deeper scents 

from the other side of the field 

(earthy, docile, alluring) 

 

meld with the fresh night air; 

warm and familiar and unknown, 

like an old friend made new. 

 

Freedom feels like 

The almost painful chill 

of the amber bottle 

you grip tightly in your hand 

 

and clink against a dozen others, 

swearing that this sliver of time 

 

will never fade, 

never tarnish, 

never cease. 

 

We’re too smart to trust it. 

And yet we’re young enough to believe 

that it doesn’t matter. 

 

Freedom tastes like 

The cheap stuff; 

the drinks bordering on lighter fuel, 

with a singular purpose. 

 

The sharpness as we force them down, 

pretending to enjoy it 

until we do. 

 

As they lacerate our tongues. 

 

Your mouth on mine 

and mine on his 

and yours on hers 

and theirs and  

mine again. 

 

As fears and consequences 

dissolve alongside time.