Salome Starfire

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PMT

I am on a tram or a boat, well not a boat, not for a while anyway. But maybe a tram. So listen lady, there is a seat next to you, and you have bags on it, and I am TIRED –my feet are hurting ever so much and I know you are important with your Gucci face-plant and your 150 dollar nail polish talking to the secretary of some parliamentarian lackey but I am tired. So don’t ignore me and then look distastefully at me when I want to sit there. I smell good! I smell of a little bit of jasmine and ylang ylang and I am doing you a favour by sitting next to your run-of-the-mill drab Gucci wear and conditioned bleached-blond hair and sucker-fish face of boredom. So this is going out to all you ladies, ‘sisters’ I THINK NOT! You bourgeouis pretentious bitches! We make the music and the poetry, the ‘bohemian’ scene you so badly want to be a part of, in as far as you will live in the places we once inhabited like Brunswick or Fitzroy but we cannot afford anymore because you just had to buy another inner-city unit and become a landlord three times born. I am going to scratch poetry in my period blood on the white guard walls of your houses at night. I am going to direct you into highly unusual pathways and change all the signs on your way to work so that you will be forced to abandon your heels and your Gucci slave-trade shit and walk barefoot in a square inch of grass. I know the revolution failed, but sometimes I just want to scream it from every fibre of my being, ‘Down with the rich, the pretentious cruelty, oh and the pretentious hipsters too!’

 

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