Here Come the Dogs

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This has always been a land of fire.

Once a year, the Ancients would go into the mountains in search of bogong moths. They carried burning branches and thrust them into rents in the rock, stunning the congregated moths, then catching them in fibrous nets or kangaroo skin. The moths were roasted on fine embers and the Ancients feasted, vomiting for the first few days but then growing accustomed to the rich, fatty food. The Ancients would return from the mountains with glossy skin, glistening like shadow.

Afterwards, fires would burn on the mountains for days.

Where are these cunts?

Too hot, bro,

too fucken long without rain.

Two by two they troop in,

the madness of summer in the brain.

In the dying light,

the crowd looks like hundreds of bobbling balloons,

waiting to be unfastened.

Sweating tinnies and foreheads –

sadcunts and sorrowdrowners the lot of them.

I stand up,

six-foot-two and shining,

yawn,

twist side to side on my hinges

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