…though Darling took a charge for one once, and, thrusting her arm into a gum’s hollow, she left us well behind to break it for her.
We cashed in, by the by, on a Melbourne Pony. And they were always going to come for us anyways, always going to be there by suggestion.
Theatre stubs in their mouths like some goddamn equine rose, counting with their goddamn hooves, because, regardless, Eloise, you need a partner.
They were always saying that.
When I was 26 I caught a capitalist flu and a handful of psychological warfare. I must have been some sight, indeed, with one pocket full of tissue and some sort of monkey saint of agency glowing in the other.
Tail poking out fetchingly.
I thought I’d give her a black ear by way of throwing myself out of stories, and so, I did.
I do.
This is never about the lies we adopt.
It is frightfully whack to be deaf if you are Tasmania…
…It is seemingly noxious to be chasing your husband through bindies, shoes in your hand, pieces of windscreen in your mouth, and the dungarees beckoning, from the tomato plot, saying, “in MY pocket, snug and dry, are your ferry tickets.”
Once and for all you just want to strangle the thing dead. Once and for all you don’t. I only ever wear underpants in another country. Nobody is ever throttled.
Nothing ever caput.
