It smelt like ballons
And just when I think I can’t feel any worse
I realise I’m not alone.
I could’ve been sleeping for days -
and could’ve slept for three more.
That all familiar first beep of my alarm simply broke my heart,
and those that followed were cruel and relentless.
My first waking thoughts were cursed.
I hated myself.
I ripped off my blankets like useless bandaids
and put on a brave childish face.
My life forced and altered
- a life.
I start every morning with dread
self loathing
guilt
fear
shame
and misery
Knock over a few empty beer cans onto the carpet
– And I have no idea why I do it.
I close the front door behind me,
probably waking up three of my neighbours in doing so.
My old beanie covering my head and ears
I can smell that it needs a wash.
The air wet on my unshaven face.
My fingers toy with an old tissue or two
that had been in my pocket for weeks.
I forgot my novel.
It was taking me so long to finish.
I was failing
The woman with the two bags
walking up the bluestone alley
I walked down.
I recognise her walk
her body shape,
and her two bags.
I worry that I frighten her.
every waking morning
like clockwork,
The women here and there dressed for work
wearing comfortable shoes
and the men looking at them -
she belonged in the drunken sex-dream
of eight men that morning.
she had no secrets
- not because she was an honest person -
because she hadn’t lived yet
and something all around me
in the still dark morning air
made me feel that in this city,
everyone
everywhere
was miserable
– I never wanted to live in the future –
I live in fear of that one big mistake
just around every corner
of everyday –
that one big mistake I’ll make one day
that will result in the death of another man
my brother
two crows bicker
over one stale piece of bread on the ground
by an empty
wet rubbish bin –
I felt hungover,
but I couldn’t be sure
of when and why
– a council rubbish truck roars
down the street,
oblivious to the sleeping unemployed
– I hold my breath as
the stench will eventually diminish behind me
– every Monday like clockwork
The weekend’s blood stains the footpaths
fifty meters from every drink-hole
– Inside a sad lonely cleaner does his job
by vacuuming around the stacked chairs and tables
– those responsible walk by in the cold outside
– I see him through the dark window as my soul hurts further
– The weekend’s shame hits each of us
in different ways
at different times
– a young school girl sits and ponders,
but in this city everyone
everywhere
is a paedophile
– a tram advertising the severity of depression
– the Monday rituals –
pleasantries and polite
people asking
how was your weekend?
– that’s some strong instant coffee
– 2 minute noodles, hey?
– exhaustion never took this long
– on Friday I’ll be told so on four occasions
before I can even look at the clock
for the third time that morning
11 o’clock –
I think about getting another beer
on my way home –
I ask the bar tender girl if anyone
has handed up my lost scarf
but I’ll never really know
– sitting alone I see five people I know enter the pub
– I get up to leave
and leave my scarf behind
– out on the street again
I just want to get home
– I see a tampon on the footpath
and know it’s going to remain there
for at least another week –
no-one’s going to pick that up
Life is unfair
And I don’t mind
Life is unfair
And I’d be confused otherwise
Life is unfair
And love is rare
But life is unfair
And I don’t care
If only someone would write that on a toilet wall
I’d be happy
Another coming of age, and I'm sick of them
– I’m sick of learning
and I'm sick of learning through life
– experience teaches me everything
and I have no time for it
– I'm never going to know what I want to do,
and so I don’t bother
– everything happens anyway –
you know you’re getting older when
you have to hold back the tears
as you walk back home
with all that peak hour traffic driving by
as the city sky touches
tonight’s sunset
- you buy a paper
and read it as you wipe your nose
with a childhood hankie -
you put on slippers when you arrive home
and try and warm up the place
– a simple home cooked meal tastes pretty good
– and you call your loved ones,
not because you have to
– music plays,
not because it’s cool,
but because it makes you feel the cheerful sadness
and makes you think of all your friends,
of then and now –
what you really feel
what really makes us shrivel and live quietly?
What makes it so hard to do otherwise? –
how many quiet nights in does it take to make a wild man change?
How man quiet lonely beers does it take to make me pathetic?
If suicide is a holiday, what are you doing tomorrow, and why are you setting your alarm?
I feel more uneasy now that my life is balanced,
secure
and easy –
everything in moderation
and a clear view
of right and wrong
–and all those crazy cars out there,
stopping and starting,
one kilometre from home
but two moves away
from life or death
– I walk down the streets and cringe
and fear for your safety
– hopefully you’ll see me at the next set of red lights
– but you don’t - only your child’s eyes
– and no matter what, we can’t blame each other
for feeling like pioneers –
for feeling like the first ones
to feel this way
– because it comes about to each of us
through infinite
unique
daily situations
– our day to day lives are lived
so that we can find that one great day,
that one perfect situation
that might just make us happy forever
– thats the one thing we really hope for
– that we’ll be happy enough on the day we die
- the one day that really counts
– cos god knows we treat the rest like shit.
