It’s the Carnival of Misinterpreted Histories, and we heave on our red brick suits and iron shoes to join the parade. We snake past symbolic spires and chimneys, hacking sparks from worn flags and singing hymns which conflate our motherland with God. We have bees in our throats, all honey and sting, and fire in our limbs, all industry and destruction. We are certain we’ve been here before, just as we’re certain we always have been and will always remain, though “here” itself is shifting and slipping away. Our mothers and fathers did this before us so that we might carry on. Steel birds circle and we crane our necks, singing louder the songs that stain our blood.
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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
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