Peter Spagnuolo, 4 January 2018
I sweeps out the last speck of his glitter dust, his hippie robes, and chucked that disco mirror-ball down the cliff. All day so I spits, I cussed,
watched their sail dwindle at the limit of all that isn’t this, my birthright, my home. And then I huff her dirty knickers up my snout – the pair I stole
when she bathed in my creek, in the buff, posed mid my rocks, my ferns, knew...