SURFERS PARADISE MIND STOP
Outside the Hard Rock Cafe, a peroxide sheila, climate changing breasts spilling out an overturned black dress, strolls through melanomic high noon bright. Cool, braless, continental slippage magnetizes redblooded arousal. Her mansized mounds challenge gravity firmer than inflated astronauts orbiting a floating space station. The tattooed surfer, idly flexing a rump roast bicep, neither ponders intergalactic travel, nor contemplates NASAs future ambition. Inside his airlocked mind, the horizontal Fujis defy the foundations of astrophysics, mock the feminist agenda. Likewise, whiteshirted businessmen ignore the Prime Ministers visit to Ground Zero; care less the Commonwealth refuses to get tough with Robert Mugabe. Waiting for the lights to change, zenmaster attention concentrates on nipples playing peekaboo behind shifting black cotton. As the parade passes gear and beachware shops, two Japanese in tanktops and wraparound sunglasses, suddenly ignore boogy boards and Australias frantic attempts to regain its sagging share of Japans fickle beef market. Neither surfing nor mad cow disease can compete with grandeur seldom seen on the streets of frozen Niigata or sleepy Fukushima. On the distaff, resentment burns barbie hot. Why should bourgoise hypertrophy distract the banjo-eyed from such meaty matters as widening cleavages separating the workers and womens movements? By the time the bread and cirrus mamaries enter an upscale hair salon, nobody agonizes how to unify the Australian Labour Party.Surfers Paradise, Australia Thur 01/31/02