Rumble in the jungle
It is 42 degrees out there. Here in our metal clambake clamshell the sweat drips off like rivers of raging emus. The hell-preview heat leaves us stultified and there is not a roo or koala to be seen, all hiding, baking or frying in the post apocalyptic landscape.
Occasionally we hear the dull ‘kerthud’ of a heat exhausted koala as its claws give up the ghost clinging to the ghost gum, a shudderingly eery event to witness and a chilling example of nature’s unforgiving nature.
Even the humble dribbling koala knows we can’t swallow it’s ghost chips. A kiwi has the dignity and self respect to confine its buffoonery to the wee small hours of the morning, avoiding the constant annoyance of snakes, scorpions, sloths, Tasmanian devils and wild feral dingos, all looking for a feed and prepared to kill for it if necessary.
The hills are red as blood out there, red with the rage of a thousand enraged tigers painted blood red with the splilt blood of countless hammered virgins wrestling as angels transfixed in their gaze by elephantine grey alabaster icons, in the orthodox sense of icons as hallowed, haloed, hollowoed out tinseltown idealised sanctimonious relics, patently retouched exorbitantly priced fakery.
A raging emu, the first of our trip and a hallowed artifice for all that, or is it simply a thinly disguised ostrich, ocelot or cassowary swining its feathers in the breeze in the cruellest of cruel hoaxes, trips the light fantastic and creates the great divide between our suckered twin lands with a parting whip glowing like an angel with a white hot poker up her arse, the grimacing stench of smouldering white feathers whisking away the night like so much fetid gravy.
ah the good life.
As we farewell the prison compound of old and give the queen the old two fingered salute with just a hint of republicanist sarcasm, sing just one more time the eery lonesome lines of waltzing matilda as we know back home the waltzing dildo John Key continues to sell off our crown jewels garnet by garnet with all the precision of a bad seed, spilled in empty lust, some of us shed a tear or two, but briefly as we know elvis isn’t really dead just old fat and decrepit and we are destined to be the more famed cocks on the walk, blatantly spilling our seed all over, under, and around the boardwalk.