on condition of anonymity the glass breaks its silence.         little
shards all over my dual national  allegiances  while  wondering
what to wear for   Albo’s disco.             fast cooking  and oven fat
catches a flare of my self-doubt and burns the afternoon’s silent
recriminations.  the walls have inched in like inhaled ribs while
we wait for another  byelection  citizen saga but it is a chance to
meet  and  greet a finely  opposing  minister whilst  engaging  in
cultural necessities   such as  bidding for   misogyny   speech  tea
towels.      the canapes are delicious by the way.      and the  wine
is  a  speech  away   from   fresh  highway  upgrading   while  the 
famous  DJ  looks  for  a  knob  on  the  deck  to   turn   down  the
background fuzz.   so many hi hugs synchronised air kissing and
oh   there’s Justine.   Tony is in town too.   carrots not onions this
time.      all tastes catered for.      posters.     pop up party palaces.
theories  attaching  social  cellular strobe lit  junkets  to  diffused
spin  and  high  hopefuls.     the  climate is a   vacillating political
compass  point.    hands  in  pockets  to    counter  the   corporate
advertising splurge  of  those  who  dare  to  challenge; he whose
face has shone marrow-like in cascades of comic con.    this area
is full of  pumpkins and  glass houses.     this soil rejects pink eye
potatoes  but  tolerates  tall  poppies  and  their  beguiling  opiate
contradictions.      we have tin in our bowels,     a  seam  of  tough
extracted minerals,    a stream of door-knocking volunteers well-
seasoned  to the  quick getaway.    there is an   aggregated  churn
in the loam.     there is a hint of dissention in the  state  led ranks
as  we  lurch  into   federally   funded   devil  in  the   small  print
deciphering  the  treachery in  minor revolutions.      seven more
weeks of  blitz  burgers.      Albo has us dancing to  flame trees as
we stand by her  and  the room is a cup  half full  of  pinot grigio.
there is such reassurance in the sound waves of spun soul.     the
drive home is a  scattering  of  domestic possums  out  for  a  free
feed  avoiding  truck  wheels.        red-eyed  when  caught  in  the
headlights.     I wish I’d had three hundred bucks for that  signed
misogyny  speech  tea  towel.       oh, the irony in the washing up.