Don’t touch these untuned keys, don’t hear this thing with strings so dissonant, so dissident: seek simply to sink into thick distracting complexity.
Think movie. Think beer. Think weekend. Think fuck. Put your workboots on the ornamental carpet, yell ‘Party!’ into the smell of pretzels, into the barbecue, into the karaoke street, in Perth, Western Australia, 'hood of the red dragon, Katharine Susannah Prichard.
If she could hear these cranes! these trucks! these drums! these strings! what would she say? If she could see these groupiegirls dressed like 1940s filmstars in veils, cigarette holders, bust-darted jackets, lugubrious furs, while the boys dress like Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen. What would she write? At the anarchist-labelled performance? Sisters? Brothers? Bitches? Mofos? Would Katherine Susannah Prichard, the red dragon-mother of WA lit, be proud of you? D’you think? Or would she be sad and scornful?