tears don’t scare me – nothing can change the human mind from unraveling after the butterfly pin-prick of self-analysis pushes wave after wave of sorrow and misery into the surrounding souls that gather around in care and kindness – they fall like rusty cans of beans in an over-grown suburban backyard – dangerous and frail – and as the sun screams in the face of planet earth, flake music tinkerbells as shards of rust disintegrate into the dry soil, hardened by barefooted cricket games played by children despite the heat and the acquired joys of relaxation that sleep somewhere around the corner, in the last pocket of shade anywhere in the world – or so it seems
dust chokes as you fight through another bout of laughter – another near death experience to bring your friendships into perspective, another point of view laid to rest – another answer forgotten forever, to the questions there were none – a scratch on the arm, a drawing of blood to demonstrate life imitating art – the dust absorbs it – sun-cream seeps into the pores of our skin as sweat waits for the air to someday cool – a sand attack somewhere behind the laughter of our neighbours backyard bbq – the moment escapes our memories – I retreat into oblivion, unsure whether they can still see me surrounded by such mellow and relaxed trees and people – my breath could stop, yet I wouldn’t die – this moment would be painted, and melted into the ever flowing gush of eternity – a single moment - they will have to trust me that it did actually take place – the perfect laziness confuses the giddy sun-drunkeness that pulls us deeper into the blinding-bliss, as we remain complete oblivious living some sort of lucid-day-dream
what are the things that will never change? – the warmth of sleep – the fatigue of sand – the electric-tingles of human contact - the loud silence of trying not to wake a loved one
nothing in life is the same, much like electricity - summer fades in time to a winter warmer than winter and our friends never agree - our deaths live in poetry, but our travels die in haiku - sleep wonders about the ghosts that haunt the spare-bedrooms of our rented houses - no sound that resonates against any air of heat or atmosphere like the echo of an empty beer can - loud enough that only you can hear it from eye-distance away - sure, why not? - toss and smash that bottle empty bottle of four dollar champagne to crash and smash somewhere along the eastern-train-line - the sun is bothering someone else by now - some other family is talking and sharing stories and drinking controlably - let yourself go
in the back seat you fear the sunburn that is out of your control - subtle and pathetic positions of your limbs may make a difference, you hope - yet your blood boils cold as they pull over as it's a perfect day for a swim - the cold beers are warm now - you drink them anyway, safe in the knowledge you're with like-minded friends, and some alcoholic hitch-hikers
his denim was warm and loose - you couldn't find a man in them - pulling on them felt like an endless dream-time in which you declared your name and that somehow made a difference to the person sleeping next to you - who is writing down your sleep-talks? - a boy at the death-shadows of his soon-to-be idol's idol - another fucking beach! - is it really such a small world? or are we so pathetically scared and huddled together, afraid and scared to be alone?
i lose her - and for moments i am a solitary man standing in a field - the same dust - the same dry grass - some-where in the distance someone is fucking someone else over - grains of dust and sand move over my boots without my knowledge - until i take the time to realise where i am, and notice what i am doing...
a dust-warm beer - sweaty man, i suppose - but clean, and friendly to the mothers
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