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The Home as Homicide

by Stephen Oliver


The Magnolia flower bruise-purple, cream cupped, under September. Long haul promise of summer heat and forests illuminated in scripts of flame, the sky's pinafore blue a bleached out migraine.
      The land insisting upon it's climactic heritage beyond the roar of air conditioning in a million suburban homes, within the short term memory loss of kitchen and living room; discrete zones for the petty crimes of the heart. Clearing rooms for hoarded angers given over to street cred.
      Clouds troop from the southern horizon, lightning lays down its picket fence through the postal zones. Hamid pulls up alongside Zang Wei in the slow lane, and pumps a crescent of bullets into the driver's seat. Intersection lights-gone-yellow-gone-red-gone-green. High Season of Taxi Wars along the Princes Highway. The Channel Ten 'eye-in-sky' helicopter reports traffic banked up to Bankstown.
      Follow the Metallic serpent with scales flashing back down Parramatta road to Rockdale. Tomorrow a dawn of middle eastern appearance will rise over Newtown: Gateway To The East.


© 2002 Stephen Oliver


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