Billy Connolly.
Three quarter turn; remote keys in hand. The Skoda winks at him, he swivels and walks on.
Standing at the lights, oblivious to all else, are robotic 9-5'vers listening to their versions of Adele love songs. DubFx versions. XX versions. And ofcourse, Adele herself.
A naughty, mesmerized by fame thought winks back. What is Wellington to him? He has seen the world; yet here he is parking his car on Abel Smith Street.
People.
The cold, stiff, dead-cell hands of people as they fear of dying. You stroke the hand, give them some warmth, and fight back a swelling watery feeling. You never can just make eye contact; unleash the swelling water.
People who have a 'tosser' while in a public place. Not mortified; quite oblivious.
Your face red hot with embarrassment for them. But why?
People
Who can't hold eye contact. Instead dart furtive glances from the safety of a fringe.
I felt I could read into the well of disappointment; the loss of opportunity
The starvation she was being put through to be somebody.
Like the mesmerized by fame feeling, I can't quite take my eyes off her.
Something so attractive in her pain and loss.
Her angular chin reflected in her angular nose. Reflected in her angular skeleton.
Broken by the curves of her pre-adult, post-teen breasts arched by a black lacy bra.
Mirrored by the white 'singlet' just below those slight nipples.
Covered by a grey hoodie, and a black pleather jacket.
Continued by 'denim' tights; finished by knee high ug-boots.
The in-complete story.
'She lives with a broken man
A cracked polystyrene man
Who just crumbles and burns
Three quarter turn; remote keys in hand. The Skoda winks at him, he swivels and walks on.
Standing at the lights, oblivious to all else, are robotic 9-5'vers listening to their versions of Adele love songs. DubFx versions. XX versions. And ofcourse, Adele herself.
A naughty, mesmerized by fame thought winks back. What is Wellington to him? He has seen the world; yet here he is parking his car on Abel Smith Street.
People.
The cold, stiff, dead-cell hands of people as they fear of dying. You stroke the hand, give them some warmth, and fight back a swelling watery feeling. You never can just make eye contact; unleash the swelling water.
People who have a 'tosser' while in a public place. Not mortified; quite oblivious.
Your face red hot with embarrassment for them. But why?
People
Who can't hold eye contact. Instead dart furtive glances from the safety of a fringe.
I felt I could read into the well of disappointment; the loss of opportunity
The starvation she was being put through to be somebody.
Like the mesmerized by fame feeling, I can't quite take my eyes off her.
Something so attractive in her pain and loss.
Her angular chin reflected in her angular nose. Reflected in her angular skeleton.
Broken by the curves of her pre-adult, post-teen breasts arched by a black lacy bra.
Mirrored by the white 'singlet' just below those slight nipples.
Covered by a grey hoodie, and a black pleather jacket.
Continued by 'denim' tights; finished by knee high ug-boots.
The in-complete story.
'She lives with a broken man
A cracked polystyrene man
Who just crumbles and burns
It wears her out, it wears her out
It wears her out, it wears her out '*
It wears her out, it wears her out '*
The complete story.
The people. The scapegoat of the class eternal. Laughing to be included.
Constantly warding off awkwardness by creating more.
A virgin.
The girl who lives a lie. Who is told to live the lie. Who eats grey circular pills with dashes through the middle, not knowing the name; not knowing suicidal tendencies are the side-effect.
The girl who asks about 'conservative Christchurch'. Is it really that racist? I want to throw my arms around her, kiss her on the lips, and cry. Yes, she would be mis-understood in the South Island.
The lady whose a mother. Who encompasses selfless-ness. The lines under her 20+ old eyes talk of a hard life. But she won't utter a word about it. She apologizes for the orange juice spilt on the desk; I want to throw my arms around her too and thank her for the sanity she brings me.
The toothless woman who IS. She is '57 born, a mother again, to two men. I wonder (want to assume?) that one was a 'tosser'. But she laughs. Even when talking of her patient who consumed clothes through her vagina to feel again what is was like. She laughs. She winks.
But it doesn't feel convincing.
The guy. Who watched his mother suffer innumerable strokes. Who nursed her. And who is now the bible of care-giving knowledge; imparted with a false sense of wisdom.
The girl who vacuums, cleans; never makes eye contact. Her zebra socks add a psychedelic dimension to a historic carpet. Her hair talks of in-security or experimentation? And I wonder whether she is a mother?
The pregnant girl who is afraid of labour.
People.
Just the beginning of the equal and opposite forces.
The fight within.
The fight dispelled so conveniently by my privileged life
Of music, Warmth; Constant euphoria.
A stone strong, mountain ridge of
Emotional security
Embalmed by good parents, good family;
Good friends.
*Fake Plastic Trees by Radiohead
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