Tomato juice
Black coffee without sugar
Oh, for a proper breakfast.
Late friday night
The light in my soul awakes
For empty promises
Electric lights hum
Yellow line into darkness
We wait together.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
The year I stole things.
2003 was the year that I stole things.
I had just turned 20 years old and into my second year of what would turn out to be five long years of university.
And I stole.
It was mostly small trivial things; an apple from the market stall while the grocer was preoccupied opening boxes of mandarins, the morning newspaper from the neighbour's front yard in the early morning, a shot of tequila from a bar top, the cutlery left on the outside table of a swanky restaurant or even a free ride on the rickety trams down Swanston street.
It was all taken for nothing. And it felt good.
In the summer I mostly stole fruit. The stone fruits are a lovely size for concealment and the benefits were instant and delicious. Towards the winter months I began to venture into the large shopping complexes, walking in and out of stores and absently pocketing random objects. Thicker jackets and layers of clothing always made things easier. And then came spring.
It was in spring that I got caught.
I don't think she even cared.
I had just turned 20 years old and into my second year of what would turn out to be five long years of university.
And I stole.
It was mostly small trivial things; an apple from the market stall while the grocer was preoccupied opening boxes of mandarins, the morning newspaper from the neighbour's front yard in the early morning, a shot of tequila from a bar top, the cutlery left on the outside table of a swanky restaurant or even a free ride on the rickety trams down Swanston street.
It was all taken for nothing. And it felt good.
In the summer I mostly stole fruit. The stone fruits are a lovely size for concealment and the benefits were instant and delicious. Towards the winter months I began to venture into the large shopping complexes, walking in and out of stores and absently pocketing random objects. Thicker jackets and layers of clothing always made things easier. And then came spring.
It was in spring that I got caught.
I don't think she even cared.
Now
"So what now?"
"We continue on, we do what we always do."
"But what if thats not enough? What then?"
"Then we push on. We don't stop moving. We look out for each other."
"We continue on, we do what we always do."
"But what if thats not enough? What then?"
"Then we push on. We don't stop moving. We look out for each other."
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
The title before would be more appropriate.
A mouse's dream of horses and other unrelated matters.
Its 12.01 when J gets the first sms.
10 minutes later and the message count is 15. J sighs, this can't be good news.
"J, she ran off, no good. Need to find her. Help. PC"
"J, whered she go?? where are u??? PC"
"She was soo hot...."
"J man, I got her shoe, I got an idea. PC"
He found her shoe? He has an idea? This definitely cannot be good news.
And so begins yet another misadventure of J's life as Prince Charming's mate.
.
As per usual, M wakes up with the rising sun. However, unlike normal days M wakes up today with an unexplainable desire to eat hay.
Mice don't like to eat hay.
M is confused.
.
J met PC back in college, PC was studying the regal duties required by him while J was waxing lyrical about sunsets and soft petals falling off a snow covered rose while getting through barrel after barrel of mulled wine.
Naturally they hit it off wonderfully.
J in his often drunken haze refused to provide to PC the respect and reverence that is demanded, and PC reveled in the fact that someone treated him as a nobody.
Also PC loved his mulled wine. And the ladies.
.
M tries to remember the previous night. He remembers hunting for food in the courtyard of the house. He remembers a flash of light. He remember hooves.
He finds some breadcrumbs on the kitchen floor and nibbles at it in thought.
.
J finds PC on the sofa, just left of the jewel encrusted solid gold royal seats of his parents. They'd found the sofa discharged on the side of the street last year on one of their drunken stumbles back to the castle and decided that there was still some life in it yet.
"J where have u been?"
"Hey PC, sorry dude, was out at the back with that Jess chick, why are you holding a glass shoe?"
Its 12.01 when J gets the first sms.
10 minutes later and the message count is 15. J sighs, this can't be good news.
"J, she ran off, no good. Need to find her. Help. PC"
"J, whered she go?? where are u??? PC"
"She was soo hot...."
"J man, I got her shoe, I got an idea. PC"
He found her shoe? He has an idea? This definitely cannot be good news.
And so begins yet another misadventure of J's life as Prince Charming's mate.
.
As per usual, M wakes up with the rising sun. However, unlike normal days M wakes up today with an unexplainable desire to eat hay.
Mice don't like to eat hay.
M is confused.
.
J met PC back in college, PC was studying the regal duties required by him while J was waxing lyrical about sunsets and soft petals falling off a snow covered rose while getting through barrel after barrel of mulled wine.
Naturally they hit it off wonderfully.
J in his often drunken haze refused to provide to PC the respect and reverence that is demanded, and PC reveled in the fact that someone treated him as a nobody.
Also PC loved his mulled wine. And the ladies.
.
M tries to remember the previous night. He remembers hunting for food in the courtyard of the house. He remembers a flash of light. He remember hooves.
He finds some breadcrumbs on the kitchen floor and nibbles at it in thought.
.
J finds PC on the sofa, just left of the jewel encrusted solid gold royal seats of his parents. They'd found the sofa discharged on the side of the street last year on one of their drunken stumbles back to the castle and decided that there was still some life in it yet.
"J where have u been?"
"Hey PC, sorry dude, was out at the back with that Jess chick, why are you holding a glass shoe?"
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
A mouse's dream of horses and other unrelated matters.
Its nearly midnight on a Tuesday night that I find myself sitting alone in my one bedroom flat. Its cold, not unbearably so, but cold enough for me to notice it. So there I am, Miles Davis is playing quietly from my stereo in the other cornoer of the room and I'm sitting in front of an empty screen thinking about Cinderella.
"Cinderella?" Steve the Parrot says, "That old broad, why you thinking about her?"
I don't know. It must be me.
"Cinderella?" Steve the Parrot says, "That old broad, why you thinking about her?"
I don't know. It must be me.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
Work in Progress
"Friday Night Chickens"
So it is a Friday night.
Friday night is the night that John steals; Thursday night being the night he does his laundry and Wednesday night being the night he watches re-runs of M*A*S*H while eating barbeque shapes.
Just like most stupid things in his life, it starts with a beer. And another. And another. And one more because it was his shout. And another because its not his shout. And then one quick one just for the road.
And then he finds himself outside the neon lights of his local Safeway.
Coles cooks better roast chickens than Safeway. Its a simple fact that he had learnt from Steve the Parrot.
"Coles just does better chickens." Steve the Parrot would say, "its a simple fact".
"What proof do you have? Isn't it just a question of personal taste?" John would ask
"No, its a simple fact."
"How so?"
"Don't argue with me boy, I know my roast chickens."
"But aren't you a parrot? Isn't that like eating your cousin?"
"John...shut the hell up."
The quality of the roast chicken and Steve the Parrot's apparent taste for cannibilsm aside, John knew a far simpler fact, Safeway's roast chickens are much easier to steal. And through the drunken haze that one gets after 15 pots of draught, ease always takes preference over quality.
John stumbles through the metal gates of the store with the grace and nimbleness of man under the influence of over 4 litres of beer. He..
To be continued....
So it is a Friday night.
Friday night is the night that John steals; Thursday night being the night he does his laundry and Wednesday night being the night he watches re-runs of M*A*S*H while eating barbeque shapes.
Just like most stupid things in his life, it starts with a beer. And another. And another. And one more because it was his shout. And another because its not his shout. And then one quick one just for the road.
And then he finds himself outside the neon lights of his local Safeway.
Coles cooks better roast chickens than Safeway. Its a simple fact that he had learnt from Steve the Parrot.
"Coles just does better chickens." Steve the Parrot would say, "its a simple fact".
"What proof do you have? Isn't it just a question of personal taste?" John would ask
"No, its a simple fact."
"How so?"
"Don't argue with me boy, I know my roast chickens."
"But aren't you a parrot? Isn't that like eating your cousin?"
"John...shut the hell up."
The quality of the roast chicken and Steve the Parrot's apparent taste for cannibilsm aside, John knew a far simpler fact, Safeway's roast chickens are much easier to steal. And through the drunken haze that one gets after 15 pots of draught, ease always takes preference over quality.
John stumbles through the metal gates of the store with the grace and nimbleness of man under the influence of over 4 litres of beer. He..
To be continued....
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