I stand, arms out­stretched as everything i know whirls around me
Smashed into drift­wood and debris by the tor­nado of cir­cum­stance
They say justice is blind but I can’t help feel she’s blind­folded right now,
Held to ransom as random injustice rains down on us — and it’s a hot rain,
a muggy rain that sticks in your craw and chokes you with the stench of it.

In a week where we take one step closer to our very own Stasi on our door­step,
with our newly minted Home Office ready to raise its Aussie combat boots
and place them down ever so gently on the neck of our del­icate demo­cracy;
in a week where the ice caps melt inex­or­ably towards a day where they can gambol
on warm shores with scores of dead fish; in a week where the ersatz leader of the
so-called free world slimes his way through yet another woman’s dig­nity;
in this week, when we need good people so des­per­ately, it is in this week
that we find ourselves bum­bling through press con­fer­ence after press con­fer­ence
where the sheer unfair­ness of all of it comes crashing down around my ringing ears
and my numb hands which I find have crept into fists again; my aching shoulders
have found them­selves tight around my ears again and my teeth hurt from clenching
and I am numb numb numb because I cannot let myself rage or I will break

I cannot even bring myself to write it down: that we have lost not one but two
of my heroes over such trivial over­sights, over such pathetic bur­eau­cratic mis­haps —
I find myself bogged down in legal trivia and rail against it like a child. It’s unfair,
It just shouldn’t be hap­pening. No fair. One week after she was born, the law changed.
One week. Surely you get some kind of pass for that, for stating what you did in good faith.
Surely there’s some sort of waiver for babies and chil­dren, but there’s the crux of it,
Isn’t it? If we waive the case for these two, we might need to acknow­ledge the inno­cence
Of the 179 chil­dren we’ve locked away in sticky-hot camps off our shores; we might
Need to let all those Amer­ican Dreamers claim their rights on that sticky-hot
Florida shore where their par­ents landed all those dec­ades ago, because it is
All con­nected, it is all one hot sticky mess, and leads us right back to Dutton and his
Dirty back-room riot where the police force is sleazing up to the mil­itary and they’re all
Leering at the hot sleek weapons cache they’re going to get their sticky fin­gers on next
Because lord knows it’s a pounding coming to anyone who thinks oth­er­wise
And don’t you forget it in a week where we dis­covered the legacy of men who visit
Evan­gelist churches just often enough for someone to drink in the sick hot mes­sage
That viol­ence is their birth­right and we all better learn to submit, amen.

And now I’m sit­ting at the bottom of that whirl­wind, sur­rounded by frac­tured life
And the boxes of both my career and my home. The first day of term and
My daughter’s school was on fire, like it knew that there was no point
Trying to edu­cate anyone in a world such as this, crum­bling, des­troyed
And without its cham­pions.