Minor domestic emergencies

By | 1 February 2019
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.

 


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