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blood surges rapidly along cronulla beach. armed with bats, white bodies are mad replications of tents, parasols and sunblinds spreading all over what used to be kurranulla, aboriginal landscapes, the place of pink seashells. there is no chieftain on the shore, no starfish where dominion shatters. not too far behind, thugs and their hand maids constrict exquisite shades of perplexity to keep generations pure and sterile. space beneath vestiges of hamlets from long ago have become driftwood, shells, cleavers of melting pots and succession. they are swaying eerily translucent as postcards bereft of scintillating light in the heated - up weather. so racializing this soap.
wendell