Glitter Blue Lipstick

An understanding came over him in the smoky twilight; here in this slug motel on edge of town. In this place of drugs, booze and heedless sexual encounters he sat at the edge of the bed, hands in hair contemplating a great truth.

Two paths lay before him; one to happiness the other to Love. Because they could never be the same, not when Love could be so dangerous and could inspire such lunacy. 

Not when Love could be the red dress lying on stained carpet next to a broken martini glass marked with last night’s glitter blue lipstick.

That type of love took its chances, burnt brightest and died young, hurt you in the most satisfying ways and walked away with what little dignity you had left.

And this is where she found him from beneath the fallen sheets of their reckless bed. Wrapping her arms around his naked torso she placed her head on his back to listen to him breath and ease what troubles he’d found.

This was the answer he was looking for, so he chose love, the path more treacherous, but the only one worth dying on.

The House of Beautiful Things

There would be no water, not even in a house built on such deep foundations. So she walked away and bred her light on new sands. And like all great adventurers the sadness she felt was soon eclipsed by the wonders she encountered.

Trees grew in once brutal soil, here she found comfort, joy, freedom, the freedom to find the lost person she could barely remember trapped in that house of such deep foundations.

Here spirits of wild beings and other broken souls floated gently on warm currents of ethereal tones and she embraced them and slow danced to their music.

Before long she was singing too, about a reckless man who had no right to hold her heart in his rough hands and the front door she slammed in his face.

He only told her she was beautiful when he made her cry and she grew weary of being beautiful.

How To Fall

Let’s talk about love, said her that December they spent on the Island. He understood immediately and wanted to reply;
the human heart has the capacity to love millions, in a universe of infinite possibilities and outcomes there can be no such thing as just one perfect soulmate.

Suddenly he saw in her eyes something many thought impossible. It was as if they never left that place where they first met; dancing to the slow music, barefoot on the silver sands of the moon lit bay.

He realised from the first moment he saw her face and she smiled at him he had fallen, and loved her since. 

In that moment he needed to say I love you and I will always love you because that was the only truth to ever matter but he saw in her eyes she already knew. 

The next day they found

We all knew the extent of Walter’s issue. He drank too much on his own, never had a bottle he couldn’t empty or bother to share.

It made him weak and this was not the type of neighbourhood to show weakness in. Not back then, now they got those fancy coffee shops and apartments no one can afford, back then packs ran the street, Wolves of men looking for breakable things.

He drove a brown Toyota pickup truck everywhere, crashed it more than once. It had a dent on the left bumper, one of the fenders was almost obliterated and he had this long rusted gash on the other side where he hit a gate post and kept going. That thing was as battered as him.

He passed out in it one time, in front of my house on Jamaica avenue, I took the twenty from his wallet and hit him in the head with it...because fuck him he was an asshole too that's why. He was so drunk he never even flinched.

A week later my cousin tried to sell me Walt’s tape deck radio. I told him I didn’t want it cause he left the bracket behind and it wouldn’t work, he sold it to some guy for parts.

He didn't know this; Walter, he was always looking for the dark bus out of here, the one to the next place that runs on the hope for something better. And when he finally caught it, it was from multiple organ failure most likely caused by tainted booze. I know where he got it from too.

There was a still up in the township next to our neighbourhood selling home-brew by the litre but you had to bring your own Jug. And the guy selling it would soon as take your shoes as your cash for payment. It was cheap but it got you fucked up.

Walter parked up by the rail tracks and sat down on a nearby storm drain to watch the sunset while he drank. I guess he just blacked out, slipped away.

The Climb

When there is nothing left to say that hasn't already been spoken.
When there is no vista that hasn't already been shown.
No words than the thousand already written.
Nor steps than the two thousand already taken.
The end has arrived
and it will be beautiful.

How The Street Found Us

We all used to smoke, the kids don’t know that. It made us feel like cowboys and we listened to the Rolling Stones when they were cool. 

Back then we were drinking too much cheap brandy, burning weed in tight rolls and wearing too many colours, but life was short and you only ran once.

And no one wrote stories about sober old men, no, our heroes lived short flights through burning crimson skies and died in lead thunderstorms.

Our mamas would call our names but we’d get as much of the streetlights as we could before we had to eat.

And the laughter it carried our souls into the African setting sun through the dust and the smoke of every hard day. Back then we counted these moments like currency and paid for every second of our short lives.

   

The Cold Distant Hope

The poet on the balcony puts the freshly lit cigarette into his mouth and drags deeply. On days like this he begs for cancer.

He remembers a young man with hope on his lily, white-washed brain, he would be one of the free, those who take on the world and win. But now look at this, living in the flat where he was born, with a failed marriage and kids who don’t even call.

He knows better now. He’s in the greater percentage of unfortunates for whom life is just the misery between getting smacked in the arse by a doctor and dying surrounded by strangers you once called family.  Fuck it he could improve the situation right now by just climbing over this rail. 

He never does, like most he prefers to die slow, so he goes back to get his fill of shitty TV, food from plastic containers, and discounted booze. And the ass-hole on the screen makes a joke and the poet laughs cause that’s what’s expected and he laughs until he cries because the whole world is fucking empty.