Listless and upset.
You sit clutching the remote control as if pressing the buttons will make things better.
He sits over there horny and haggard from listening to your grumpy taunts.
You’re upset with yourself more than anyone else, but you take it out on him.
He wonders when you’ll come to realise those pork sausages are the culprit.
You’re plagued by atrabilious feelings, which only heightens your cloudy thinking.
He does something out of character and gives you a Stomach Ezzy with water.
You’re so shocked you drink it, even though you’d like to cry into the glass.
He sits by you and waits with his eyes closed, for he feels the shit inside of you.
You feel rotten and put the glass and remote down, then paw his legs and feet.
He smiles and opens his eyes to say, “I see your mood’s improving little cat”.
You want to take the piss, but think better of it. All you can say is, “I’m sorry”.
He says, “Pretty one, that is enough…”
In the beginning, the world spun out of control. A course through hell would see you stand at 20 on the precipice of destiny. The choice you made was harder still, but the journey would be won. As 40 creeps closer, you look to the future with bright eyes and wise lips.
There’s a melody dancing on the wind.
Tiptoeing and fluttering, the melody moves her to the sound.
Satie soft bows from a violin stirs her heart, as the flowers and trees sway along.
In the distance he sits playing along, only to vanish the moment they meet.
You said my name each time I came back to you. I always came back to you, but you always tried to save me.
Now, as the pristine sun sets on 2018, I’m reminded of your words.
I’m reminded of my own name, which I dare not speak or utter.
Should I be myself, or is it just a word?
I’m sure you would know, but your in the clouds and I’m down here calling to you.
They stand hand in hand looking to the Alps.
Reflective and oddly calm, she says, “Up here the world is crisp and clean. You and I can talk without the madness of society getting in the way…Don’t you love the way the snow sits upon the mountains, yet the sun still shines and it isn’t too cold?”
He pauses for a few moments to breathe in the crisp air, “It’s beautiful for an Autumn day…the light, it’s welcomed here and not despised…I could live in this country…”
She looks to him and smiles, so he adds, “The sun feels different in Australia compared to Switzerland…Perhaps it is weaker?”
She squeezes his hand and he kisses her forehead, as she responds, “Yes…it feels fainter…let’s stay a little longer.”
They sit in the park.
The seat is wooden and bare.
New to all of this he asks her about love.
She thinks for a time, then says, “love is less than simple, yet more complicated than hard to define. I will not try, but I will say love is beauty“.
He found his heart.
He’s a retired surgeon with a taste for woodwork. He lives with his wife in a lovely house with good security and a vegetable patch. There’s a park down past his rear fence, which is pretty and quiet. However, to the right of his house, just a few blocks away, sits a caravan park.
No one knows how this caravan park came to be built in this location. Some say it was a stroke of genius on the developer’s part, while others say that the developer bribed the Council. There is a reason why the caravan park now sits on that land, but let us not get carried away.
He loves the quiet. It’s wonderful for reading, woodwork, painting, and more. Sometimes he likes to give the stereo a blast to remind him of the 70’s. It’s never before 9 am and always before 10 pm. He respects his neighbours. He thinks he’s sweet.
He remembers his first Saturday once the caravan park was up and running. There was never a Saturday like this one before, but will probably be many thereafter. That Saturday changed him forever.
Now Saturday has arrived again. It is the night. There is a wild party, and the caravan park is alive. What is this hell he must endure? Why is there so much noise? He finds relief with earplugs to grab a few hours sleep.
Then, Sunday descended. Saturday was hard, but Sunday is worse. Sunday consists of many fights from hell. Beer bottles fly about, kitchen utensils and tools go everywhere, shouting and banging lingers, and there’s an awful lot of barbecues.
There is a lull at 3 am, which turns into quiet. The weekend is over for another week. There is so much relief.