Opposing Islamic schools

Opposing Islamic schools They might not throw beer bottles and therefore shatter the tone of the area. Strip clubs might not reveal themselves to expose odd bumps hidden in the area. An ability in mathematics may explode and calculate the cost to the area. A window into their faith might creak open infiltrating veiled thoughts of areas unknown. Calligraphic graffiti might write itself and confuse spray-cans of the area. Their cars are undoubtedly bombs parked to terrorise honest utes used in the area. They don't understand tolerance like what we do and may incite it in the wrong area. Arabic is not Australian to our ears and it might sing out and deafen the area. All in all, it's important that ejakayshun never darken the brains of this area. Note: An area is a traditional suburban measurement, bigger than a bread-box, but much smaller than an idea.

Thinking about schools Have you got her name down yet, they ask, as if it were on the list of those who will be saved; the enrolment of my daughter amongst the elect. Saved from knowing the poor, rather than reading about them. Prevented from hearing poverty's bad diction, opening like a forgotten handkerchief, a lime flower, snotted into reality's smeared lines. They are all religious these schools, these expensive green oases of calm. Jesus, though, seems somewhat absent, expelled for breaching uniform rules, or seen hanging out with the wrong sort, washing their filthy feet. Send them a voucher for a pedicure, or sponsor a school overseas. But they can't sit down with our children, those ugly loud ones with bad teeth. We brace ourselves with silver, cross our palms with exclusion's blind coin.

Missing Melbourne Alleys don't exist here. Canberra has no use for backways streets, for furtive tales. Lies are a different matter, but those architectural commas, those cobbled night-cart ways have no place amongst paradise refined into quintessence of tedium. I love my new home's cockatoos, their hats of lairy scorn, their satire; sound-beakers of heavy metal poured into pure blue air. But I dip my memory's lid to the Brunswick park with forty tail-flagged dogs, smaller than some Canberra backyards. So much oomph, so much poo, and bocce, like a kiss thrown against the deeper green, speaking of a bigger world of coincidence and trust.

Ferns Spiders penelope their way through reaching looms. Such heroic epics of spin composed in shaky lines as gentle wheels of green unroll into sighing air. Ferns flatten into broad roads of leaf for teamster beetles, wearing caps of carapace. Then emerald waves break over cool mossy rocks, surfed by feathered shadows.