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Truganini and The Neck

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‘Who the fucks he sposed to be” said the rakey pockfaced man as he saw the monument atop the Neck on Bruny Island.

And he didn’t really care to know. Otherwise he would have read the plaque at the base of the steps. The one that outlined a whole lot of misery.

At the hands of people who never cared to learn, and cared nothing for what they didn’t know.



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Rough days. Headaches. In the sinus.

It’s the smoke. The wine.

The beauty was all but lost on me. The glass like sea when I crossed to the island. The empty beaches all to myself. Wonderful seascapes. I felt like shit. And when you feel like shit, you see the shit in everything.

It seemed a dry, cold and windy place. Overfarmed and overloaded with grey nomads poking their silly saggy necks into every nook. They stunk of split pea soup and stale piss. Filling every rest area and campground with their retirement plans. Bulky Winebagos and sandflies, man.

I tell you I don’t know what I am on about.

Smile and the world will give you a shit-eating grins stacked high as Mauna Kea.

The end.