by A. S. Patric
She has the voice of Nina Simone reincarnated into a Melbourne real-estate shark. She bends down, close to my neck, so that I can feel her words falling over me like a house of cards.
“You look,” she says, in the reggae rhythm of Rasta Man Chant, “like a fellow… in need… of a revolution.”
But she must have read that in someone else’s heart, because these days, all I’m hoping is for a little improvement in the weather, and that the days of singing for a reborn world will come again when I’m reincarnated as a bird or a bomb.
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