It's the Lucky Country's closet; a dark interior with frontier skeletons. Whirly-winds run rampant, spawning red-sand mandalas of chaos. These frenetic twisters find easy prey on ochre-kissed Dorothys, carrying them off to Parallel Oz. In Parallel Oz, neither the Good witches nor the wicked afford these Dorothys little pairs of magic red shoes . . . there's no place like a broken home . . . there's no place like a broken home . . . there's no place like a broken home. The yellow-brick road is pock-marked with massacre sites and the Wizard, the Wizard of Parallel Oz; he holds Dorothy hostage to a mutual obligation agreement. The Straw Man has the grazing monopoly, the Tin Man has the mines, and the Lion waits in the spinifex, with the long-grass drinkers. Parallel Oz and it's rag-doll Dorothys; not just an Advance Australia Fairytale, but a reality spinning out of control, gaining catastrophic momentum . . .
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem