The Wax Conspiracy

don't stare, it's rude

Underground is bathed in pure perfect light like the f-stop on a camera reefed completely open. It's an orgy of photons that sheds light on the squalid permissive prokaryotic little lives that inhabit the undergrowth.

Ni dieu, ni maître: so went the saying, and with the saying went the will. Oh, the gall of de Gaulle, another lunting right-wing cunt, to be sure – I mean, maybe – but like our one-celled friends, there was only so much guff he would take from the Yankees and the Ruskies.

What happened on those excitable streets between Chifley and Sussex, Druitt and the Cahill Expressway? More to the point, how did we get that albatross clung around our necks complete with chains, insecurity and dung?

I don’t believe the universe is malicious or unkind, but that thing flew a long, long way and it found us and now it has weighed us down. Other people have grown accustomed to the weight or never even noticed it in the first place. These stars on my knees must be faulty.

Belvedere Jehosophat

Written on Sunday, 12 May 2013

The Wax Conspiracy

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