Played as only a Sharm’n can the woman’s voice rose…

Water comics flew up the bootslope. The time comes to reveal the face of the chanters, walkers into townships. Along the winter line they track. Spelling. To the sound of falls.

Rocks.

Between the toes of sharm’n black sprouts of burnt tree stumps squawk for attention.

The ranting began.

Tanks of precise magic shot through…

Water lenses fell beyond Simos’ hands, the whole thing halved now. He fumbled for it with his pendulous digits. What a mongrel load we are he shouted at half hearing spirits.

Toxins decommisioned…

…toxic memory in the bottom of billabong #3, tended and cleansed, drinkable again.

Inkstrines libretto

Sharm’n rising and laughing according music and tounges only heard here, hybrids reconcilled, playing.

Guzzlefesting

Irreligious preachers scramble for podiums to proclaim their drunkenness. The crowd is amused momentarily then turns to their drinks…sipping ‘arghs’ and gustatory burps all round.

A tableaux

…..the whole play, 45 minutes in it’s entirity, is a prelude to exotic cakes and tea. The native condiments are shared in refined turns over solid hardwood tables.

The Current

We are dismissed and pardoned clans, falling into scrub.

Hellproof hard

Houseless homes are burnt over and sit untouched by firewalls. Grim watches. Sharm’n smile into the smoke, renewed by the seeing into one day beyond fire, the house of the day before.

Sitting

Wisdom sits deep in plain gullies stored in tanks of treasured quiet, it cannot be found with a voice or a chart or a glib goodbye, this reservoir.