Perth

This stifled belch of civilisation over which we trip, as the continent drags itself, listless, out of the desert, to stumble and drown within the sea. A fragment of cool air before the salt water bites this blistered skin and drags us down beneath the waves. Was that a shadow of hope, or just a 'trick of the light'? Backs bent, westward trudging, our necks on fire, we shed these threadbare garments of sophistication, a burden now, objects or ridicule, a vestige of the East. Help us slither beneath the lowered bar. Our bellies dragging in the sandy earth. A barren soil, in which nothing grows, but vitriol and hate. We pass our minds through the eye of the needle, narrower still. Our blood turns to venom as we burn from the inside too. Fitzroy is just an itch now. Surry Hills a yellow bruise we can’t recall sustaining. A pint glass smashes on a table’s edge, a form of conversation, where words are disused organs. No painted sky, no sandy shore, no coloured lights on Council’s chambers will breathe life into this still born dot upon the map.