In this disowning city the owners are ownless except for the clothing picked out of the rubbish of the welfare agencies. They stink, they mutter strange words of long ago intent. In this disowning city, suffering under the constant sunlanguage of heat exhaustion, they cry as they erect a statue to their disembowelled leader, John Forrest, father of many a Nyoongar as it's told, or lied. He smirks a black beard at the street marked step by step with bronze heroes on the sidewalk and even Yagan becomes a doormat for shoddy hooves of disrupt patriotism. In any passage of the sun or moon lies this lying city, this pretty town, this arsehole of the universe.
Piles break quickly into sores leaking pus over the nice clean lawns.
In the rising of the moon a woman screams lost to the feminist wail. A black man drags her down, parades her throughout the crowdless town. Here is the garden where he raped her until she bled tears of remorse. A legend is born, to fall prey to the hungry dollar, and blood and sperm become framed in a tourist's lazy need. In the bloated moon, given over to drunks and yet again those wandering sailors, fear stalks in blank faces of an end of the end of the world elite grown fat and pale on stolen land not even paid for with a dollar.