Where Our – Toby Davidson

Bipeds living separate lives emote securely to a circle of screens.
Keypads flash down Loma Street walls in red and green ersatz
shipping lanes. Oxidise space. Hypnotise. Lay waste, like the first

sold a shooter’s paradise—kangaroos, bronzewings splashing
from jarrah and wattle of quarried North Cottesloe, this feral,
goannaed ‘Siberia’. Hear teamsters, gamblers, camel races,

picnicked attempts at a rabid Brighton, white baby contests
for unsecured plots; Noongar, West Indian, Chinese hawkers
with spices, sponges, contraptions, fisherfolk trading shock

at that attack, the look of the kid hauled grey from their dancing
bosom meant to cure everything. Jetty bands, parlour cars, a twelve-
foot tiger strung pointedly—attractions worth queuing for.

‘Costume, Men and Women: Dress of dark material, serge, flannel
or flannelette, extending over the shoulder to the knee. Those in
swimsuits should not loiter.’ This was before the advent of the groyne.