Harlequinade

Harlequin - clown or buffoon, a mute character in a play or pantomime.

Harlequin lovers, tearing each other apart in their hatred and neglect.
But surely it wasn't always like this?
No, i know there was love there once; and i believe there is love there still, for only out of love is that most intense of hatreds born;
And where has all the happiness gone?
I know not when it dried up, only that it did; and although it shines through from time to time, her smile has largely deserted her;
A wasteland separates them measured only in inches;
And though the sounds of their voices may fail to cross the distance;
He can see himself reflected in her eyes, and he tries to drown it by his own hands;
For he hates, too, what he sees, and it hurts him to see her pain;
And she takes it;
Because she knows, when her voice finally crosses that ocean, dripping with the salts that sting all the more as they slice into his heart, that she hurts him more than he ever will her;
Because she knows him like no-one else;
Because sometimes words will cause more pain than sticks and stones ever will;
And though wounds to the flesh may heal;
Though they may leave a scar;
You know now where you stand, in their eyes;
You know how deep these feelings run;
And though forgiveness may come, that doubt remains in the back of your mind;
Whispering dark truths in your ear;
Forgiveness is their lie;
Because you know;
You know what lies beneath;
And they stay together;
As surely as they tear themselves apart;
Because there was love there once, which i believe is still there;
Twisted and contorted though it may be;
And they stay together;
Because with each other they know where they stand.

This Deafening Silence

How did it get this far?
He lost his iPod once, and in the dark that followed, without the music rattling about in his ears, the noise began anew. It was a Friday afternoon. Lost, he thought, truly. He'd been so many places that day, far and wide, and he'd shoved it into a pocket so shallow, it could not have sat patiently. It seemed then as though technology were crumbling about him, in his world alone from those about. First his laptop (though to be fair, that was almost a year ago), then the video camera goes missing, and now this. "It's only money," he laughs off to the security guard as he's told nothing has been returned, "when was the last time anybody did anything decent?" Sure, it seems cynical, he's not about to deny it, but then, if he found an iPod on the ground, he'd probably keep it. Why should anybody else be any better?
Still, he dismisses it, as if it were only a minor inconvenience, as if only a small thing had been lost, though it was in fact a whole lot more. Voices inside no longer drowned out, rose up from inside, and he found it hard to breathe.
Actions past, responsibilities present, and consequences on their way took hold in the forefront of his thoughts, and for a moment he is overwhelmed. He stops for a time, eyes tight shut, deep breaths, conjuring a tune, a song that's catchy, to take his mind from that place. He'll try to forget that feeling, hungering for home, to grab a book or a film or a CD, something to in turn grab his attention, to free himself from this silence, and worse what comes with it. Yet still he feels contaminated; so he calls a friend, or few, and more than likely grabs some drinks from the local. And all the night he'll talk, and say nothing at all.
He wanders for a time. This is not to say there was no method to his meanderings, there are places to go, people to see. But it is as if a layer has been stripped from the world, an emotion, a feeling, and left with a void in its place. An almost unbearable quiet, and as he sits on the tram, he takes notice of the world about him. Everyone keeps to themselves, barely allowing eye contact, so many protecting themselves from that unwanted contact with the distance of headphones. There is a silence there so unbearable where contact is discouraged. All of them confined to their own worlds, so close about them, that he wants to scream. He tries to focus instead on the sounds of the world outside, building new music with the drumbeat of the tram over tracks, the bells at each stop, and in time, in the city, he is rewarded. A busker stands on a corner, and plays his guitar to the city's tune, and the boy, he is mesmerized. With pen and paper he writes the joy of it, the sneaking pleasure that feels like eavesdropping on this stranger's thoughts, writing of somebody else's blues...

'I didn't have much to offer
but it didn't seem right
to leave nothing at all
i was, like so many others
held captive by the sounds he created
so filled with hope and sorrow
yet nonetheless uplifting
a beautiful music only rarely accompanied by words
because it didn't need to be...

"Did i tell you'bout my woman?
...There she goes in the dark of the moon..."'

Eventually he got his music back (and as it happened, his camera too), and he stopped worrying, and in time exiled that dark to the back of his thoughts once more, as he buried himself, as always, deeper in distraction.

But soon enough he broke one promise too many, and he found himself back again.
Perhaps he was lost too deep in mindless pursuit, that he thought what he did wouldn't mean as much as it did, that it wasn't as much a problem as it was. That despite the past, he could stay friends with who he shouldn't. That despite the past, he could keep going as he did. That despite the past, he could handle himself.
And for all such selfish and naive reasonings, it fell apart nonetheless.

So now he finds himself lost, and it all his doing. He watched it come, from quite a distance, while warnings fell on his deaf ears, while he made promises he wouldn't keep, though sincere at the time, while the joke became the insult, while he was too caught up with himself to really see it. What he wanted was exactly what he didn't, and what that was, was truth. It turned him inwards, and so blind to what was coming. Trapped inside selfish desires, to keep everything and everyone happy, or what he thought was happy. Perhaps content, or less, on good terms, is more accurate, so afraid of losing anyone, of being thought any less of. And instead it happens, and where it matters most. As it had happened a year ago, it happened again, as he raised his glass in a toast to his own demise, though he didn't know it before, and didn't again.
Retrospect, or history, as they say, has 20/20 vision. And history is a bitch. You cant escape from beneath it, for all that you do, so though time passes, when you slip back into the old ways, it's as fresh as the day it happened. So it is that he finds himself with music, and yet engulfed in a silence worse than when he was without it, for this silence cannot be drowned out. Instead the music fades away, and he's left with that silence as if never interrupted.
Why did he make those promises? Truly, he believed he could keep them. But not then. One week later is when he should have made them. Just one week, and by then the tourists would have come and gone. Just one week, and those promises be kept. But no, confronted by some home truths, he had felt small and sorry for himself, and eager to please, not for the benefit of those around him, but for himself, that he could tell himself he was worth more, because he had convinced them he was. Still, no matter the reason, it is no excuse. He betrayed their trust in that way. Yet somehow he remained blind.

He doesn't hear from them in nearly two months, and in truth, though he tries, they don't want to hear from him either, and all he can do is leave messages, and hope. Still it goes on, and he hopes that more time is all it needs, though he knows it isn't. What he's done since then are in penance, cutting away at what led him here, putting down that glass, erasing those numbers, cutting the lines of communication with the silence he receives now. But perhaps, he wonders, it's too little, too late. So still it goes on, hoping the next apology will find them, that the next time he speaks, it won't just be a message.
That this silence will lift.

An Arrow Once Felled

When is the time, if ever
ripe for leaving?
These words of truth, though right
so unappealing
The thought of what needs to be done
leaves only a bitter taste behind
It was always a dangerous move to make
but he made it anyway
To see it through
To make of it what he may
It was good, and at times
more than good
It seemed he'd found that for which he'd craved
Someone to hold
and hold him in return
now seems a selfish thing
For time passes
and with it, nothing more
Bringing with it a unique sense of dread
that an idea, a notion
a feeling
grows more in her
that he won't be able to return
He doesn't want to lead her on
Doesn't want to cause a hurt
But it's the right thing, isn't it?
Beset by doubt
it's better to cause a little now
than a lot later
Whatever the cause, the hurt remains
and worse than that
he doesn't want to lose her
not as a lover
but a friend
And more than ever he knows
it was a dangerous move to make
It's the right thing to do
Stupid Boy
But it doesn't make it easy.

A Toast To His Demise

He sits quietly in the passenger seat, nodding his agreement and mumbling words of apology more for his own benefit than that of his friend in the driver's. They've been talking so long the Driver has turned off the car altogether, and they sit in near darkness but for the glow of the streetlights outside, idling, doing nothing but run down the battery. A lot of what's said has been done so before, and (he thinks) will probably be again sometime down the line, but he doesn't say this; he barely even wants to believe it let alone admit it. So instead he listens as lines are drawn before him, as his latest offenses are added to the list that has already grown uncomfortably long.

I am neither the Driver, nor the Passenger, and i am both of them. I see where they both stand; separated by no more than a handbrake and a few feet of air, but threatening to be by much more if something does not change. The Driver, perhaps, has lost faith in the other, and maybe more than a little respect, though the most he says is 'disappointed'. And the Passenger? He feels these things too. The week passed he has directed them inwards; a loathing only hinted at in any other guilt he has fouind here in full-force, and maybe this is why he lets me write it down.

The night begins, as most others have, at Jim's place; Morgan (who they call 'the Captain', though not for any leadership role played) and Carly are already there, with Bundy on his way They are excited for the night ahead, smoothing hands over their suits, admiring Carly in her dress, making crude comments all round for a laugh. Jim passes out shots of Beam, they raise them to the night, and only half-jokingly Jim and the Captain lock eyes with the Passenger, "Take it easy this time", and he rolls his eyes in response, more than a little irritated they don't trust him. "Come off it, yeah?" he laughs, and in unison they throw their heads back, cringing slightly as the liquor burns their throats.
What's worse than their reminder of past mistakes, he tells later, is that it spurs him to prove them wrong.
They cab to the Ball and waltz into a room full of unfamiliar faces, not caring but to spend the time with each other they seem to have less and less of these days. Of course, the open bar helps to smooth their tongues to new people, and before long the volume of the evening goes up a notch. Meals are served, and a waiter passes by with drinks. Jim instinctively aims for the bourbon, while Bundy and the Captain ask for rum, but must settle for scotch (which doesn't upset them so much as a compromise), and Carly is content with draught beer. The Passenger, though, says something altogether different, and much more dangerous: "Surprise me". And with a smile, the waiters and waitresses oblige. Soon he wears a second tie around his head like a bandana, his voice raises to a near shout when he communicates, and he has several drinks in front of him, "to keep my options open", he says.
Time plays tricks, and he's on the dance floor, Jim and Carly are nearby, and he holds his hand up to them in waiting as he knocks back the rest of the liquid n his glass, mouth open so wide that he crunches on ice as he swallows before heading in to join them; he doesn't want to risk spilling any amongst the bump and grind of drunk uni students. Carly genuinely laughs, giving him a playful punch on the shoulder, he hears, or thinks he hears "real man" amongst her praise, and he plays along, flirting more than a little, unaware of Jim's guarded stare. Later he stands with his friends in the parking lot, all out for a smoke, but slightly apart from them, and words spill out instead. "Seeing you tonight... makes me remember..." and he almost tells Carly what he feels, but for his stumbling sentence that tells him he's not yet confident enough, and on his way back he stops at the bar, and asks once more to be surprised.
And he is.

He feels like he's walking around with his eyes closed, hearing more than he sees. "Come on mate!": it is his own voice. "Get him home safely": Bundy. "I thought you were staying out": his Father. The words seem mumbled, or like they're heard through a door, and it frustrates him as he keeps trying to come back to those moments. But the one that disturbs him most, the one that will haunt him, is the one he hears clearly. Jim shouting, like a knife cutting right through the darkness, "WHY DO YOU ALWAYS FUCKNG DO THIS!?"

It is the Captain who sits n the driver's seat a week later and fills in the gaps for him. Apparently he'd made it to the end of the Ball, at times seated with up to six drinks in front of him, continually grabbing Carly inappropriately as she spoke to someone else, and while everyone went to the after-party, he passed out on a couch in the foyer. When his friends finally came out looking for him, they find him in a shouting match with a bouncer. They try to reason with him, and in the excitement he vomits on the bouncer.
Bundy and Jim pack him on his way, paying the cabbie $50 to get him back safely, and after he's gone Jim doesn't let up. The Captain is glad the Passenger remembers the shouting, that something broke through his stupor. Jim has talked to the Passenger, many times, like the Captain does now. But he had never gone off like he did that night. So here the Captain sits, for it seems Jm has washed his hands of him, and he is straight with him. "You keep dong this... we just won't invite you out anymore. It's not a threat", he threatens, "just a fact".

"On its own", he says later, never looking directly at me, but instead intent on studying his cigarette, "it doesn't sound like too much, yeah? A pain in the arse for sure, but they're looking too much into it. Just a big night that went a little overboard". But he knows this is hardly the case. What if they told you then how this was only one in a long line of such times, or when sometimes he'd call when they weren't around to brag about how much he'd had. Even then, he tells me, he felt the need to show them how wrong they were about him; he could hold himself when they weren't around. t was, he reflects, more for his own benefit that that of his friends. Yet all it did was to confirm for them what practice and experience had already said in far less words. On how he'd never listen, never learn, and they'd always pay. In cab rides, and humour.

And the Captain goes quiet for a second, staring at him from the driver's seat with serious eyes, though he hesitates over the words, "Do you... have a problem?" The Passenger almost scoffs at it, "Come on... it's not that serious... nothing so cliche", yet even he's not convinced.

So he'll make his promises, to himself and to his friends, he'll imagine that his small income will keep him in check, and that he'll be the one watching out for them next time. And he'll try his best to keep them.
But in some small corner inside, he knows he'll be right back here, with enough time. Maybe his friends do too, only half-joking as they raise their glasses, knowing he won't change, though they'll keep telling him to, though he'll keep telling himself he needs to.
Though he'll never say as much.

'Poker Face'

Jackie Sticks was a man

Who was known his Hands

Hands running cons

Till his welcome was done

And the Games that he played

He paid for in Checks

Cheques that would bounce

Shortly after himself

'Cos Sticks was a man

Who was known for his hands

But a step ahead

And outta dodge

Before the Deck got too hot

See, he was good at his game

And never too greedy

Playing dealers for Blinds

And players for fools

To be Burnt in his trail

Taken in by his Bluff

'Cos when Jackie played his games

The deck always got too hot

Now he was a quiet one

So clever with his hands

But if ol' Sticks ever had a Tell

It was the Clubs he'd frequent

And the lies that he'd sell

Of riches not his own

Naming Diamonds of simple stone

If Jackie had a Tell

It was the broken Hearts

And hungry Spades

He left in his wake

Calling for his blood

And after his Take

If Jackie Sticks had a Tell...

So when they found him

Drowned at the River

Past his Float

To those who'd known him

To those who'd heard his tale

It came as no surprise

'Cos no hands in all the world

Can stop the wheel from turning

'Cos in the end a Free Ride

Aint really a Free Ride

You gotta choose

To Call

To Raise

To Fold

House On Fire

The night is cold

it drags remorselessly on into morning

while they shield themselves before a makeshift sun

She searches for words

hidden in the carpet

between the fibres, a patchwork of shades

unable to bring her eyes to meet his

And as she finds them, one by one

she says them more to herself

barely a whisper

shaping each syllable with her lips

sounding them out

tasting them with her tongue

the question she doesn't want to ask

lest it break the spell

"What are we doing?"

He exhales softly

a quiet, sharp sigh

like he'd been holding it all his life

In that quivering breath, she knows he's thinking

of all that she could mean

and if he hesitates

if he stumbles for a moment

on what this could become

he masks it poorly

in his way

and her thoughts sink ever lower

cursing silently this phrase she'd found

His fingers brush against her cheek

She feels his eyes

"Do you want to stay?"

She almost laughs of shock, to hear it aloud

so startled by the broken silence

His sweet ignorance

And, gratefully, she allows the words their rest

upon the carpet once more

losing themselves amongst the loops of the floor

Her eyes finally meet his

rising so slow and heavy

from such great ocean depths

Her nod is almost lost to him

so captured in her gaze

Shadows play across her face

a smile tugs imperceptibly at the corners of her mouth

Then, suddenly, it's gone

the moment betrayed

as he speaks again

"But that's not what you meant..."

The world at once becomes a smaller place

than times of old

cowering from these opened eyes

The map no longer has an edge (you cannot divide infinity)

it expands out

wraps around

until the corners meet

until we end where we began

unable to fall from the path

we cannot lose ourselves (in a moment, in a place)

and a bit more colour drains from the world

Knowing everything leaves no room

for where the magic dwells

flowering greater in the darkness

than could ever in the light

After an eternity she pulls away

She wants to lose herself

"Am I yours?"

Such desperate abandon

He wants to lose himself

But logic awakens somewhere

it grabs at the map

Don't stray from the path, it nags

the moral of a faerie tale

And he's sick of it

He takes her chin, so gently, between thumb and forefinger

and lifts her gaze once more

Lose yourself

something screams inside of him

in this moment

in this place

"Am I all yours?"

Fingers grope blindly for an edge

to pry apart

So they bathe in their madness

submerged amidst the ink of night

All other sounds seem distant

far off

drowning in this liquid black

and all he can hear is her breathing

Heavy

Primal

Calling, frantic, to his flesh

It passes through him, into him

and his heart

it shudders in release

Lips brush against his skin

her hair rolls over his hands

she buries her head into his chest

Her scent intoxicates

dragging him deeper

to the place where nothing else exists

The dream, aloud, would lose its power

Speech brings with it compromise

fantasy losing form

a spoiled colour of its life

or emotion of its passing

So too the moment

let it happen

or don't

But the words will be its end

and the words know it

They are elusive

in fear of themselves

and the wreckage they leave in their wake

Shadows play across the walls

crashing upon themselves in waves

this turbulent sea

that knocks their sun from its place in the sky

Then, suddenly, it's gone

a world built on memories

now broken things

the moment betrayed

The flame bleeds them of what was, and could have been

smoke billows in its place

Fingers feel grass prickling beneath

and search instead

the Other's embrace

that they've escaped the blaze

and it, too, escaped from them

An ocean now fills the distance they keep

measured only in inches

so close

and out of reach

no longer able to make that final leap

And it clears to him

amongst the ash

how tenuous they were

such fragile things

now twisted and charred at their feet

They wish the night could dowse this light

that urges magic's flight.

The fire blooms before them

it smoulders in places

and bursts forth anew

There are two of them here

at the end of the world

this boy and girl

who might be lovers

Once

soon

or never

but wanting

They sit together

yet apart

and see in themselves this burning dance

reflected in an orange glow

A silence

filled with all the things they'll never say.

Time Served On Other People's Couches...

Night, the woods in silhouette behind her, a girl, or rather, a woman dances slowly, enticingly. Her dress flows about her in the soft breeze, she breathes a wisp of fog into the cool Autumn air.

A face, out of focus, against a dark, yet somehow light background, turns away.

The woods again, now at the periphery of a vacant field; hands reach out to draw eyes back to her, she smiles mischievously and backs away to resume her dance.

A hand, shifting in and out of focus, moves over a chest, gripping on t-shirt above the heart (what is that beyond him?).

The girl, she stretches out her hands again, fingers flex, come closer, they say.

A hand rises out of the darkness,
Flowing.
Twisting.
Writhing.
In time to a music long since past,
Trying to recapture it on the air,
And choking on it in turn.
(Can you see the wallpaper?)

His hands in hers, she leads him in her dance, their shadows lurk amongst the trees, watching and imitating imperfectly. For a second the mischief doesn't reach her eyes, she appears almost sincere, and he drops his head in embarrassment. Their feet move in tandem: fast, slow, fast, slow, he tries to keep his eyes off her, but close as she is, wearing that smile, it seems impossible.
He looks down again, but instead of dirt, soil, and earth, there is beneath him an empty black
He jerks his foot, as it falls into the abyss, and takes him with it.

He jerks his foot, waking him, while his heart still beats to the feel of falling, threatening to burst from his chest though it feels caught in his throat. Still half asleep, he squirms uncomfortably and falls from his perch. He kisses the carpet within a second; this wakes him more fully. With now open eyes he surveys his surroundings, and cannot place where, specifically, he is, besides a lounge room, and the couch he'd made a bed of.
He stretches out, now feeling a need, and proceeds, once up, to search for the bathroom. As he walks the hall his eyes search the rooms on either side, and then he spies a familiar face sprawled across a bed. A minute smile flickers across his face, he lets out a small ("hmmph") laugh. He turns around to find the bathroom directly opposite.
Once done with his business, he takes in his appearance in the mirror, in particular close scrutiny is paid over imperfections. Sunken and red eyes, sallow cheeks, sickly white complexion. His clothes are slept-in, wrinkled, stained. He turns from the mirror now, he knows what to expect, for he's been here before. Maybe not this 'here', but the situation. It seems to follow him, or does he chase it? Sometimes it's difficult to say which is true, when the night before can't be called upon for reference. He doesn't so much mind when there's a certain point in his memory where all simply stops and he wakes up the next morning, but there are other times when he remembers sounds, snippets of conversation. It is these nights he finds most frustrating, like he'd tripped and pulled out the video cable on the television, like he's walking around with his eyes closed.
He wanders back into the lounge and lies back down on the couch. How many times has he found himself here, on a couch? How many more have yet to come? Sometimes he thinks he spends more nights on other people's couches than in his own bed. This is not to say he finds a couch more comfortable (though he'll admit, and even claim proudly, "the couch is my home") but rather it's a testament to his lifestyle. It's a testament to escapism. It's a testament to adaptability. And he finds it amusing that it no longer feels natural to sit on a couch, so if he sits, it's on the floor in front, leaning back against.
Is this him punishing himself, spending all this time aloft in the world, drifting between places? Or is it that he pushes his limits merely to see how far they'll bend before they break? He wakes up at a work-mate's, his mouth tastes of ash, and the odds are he'll have work shortly. He wakes up at Duncan's, he cannot find his pants, but at least there's a blanket here. He wakes up at his parents', by the beach, and jokes on the fact they have no other place for him when he visits. And here he is now, awoken on a couch unfamiliar but for the passed out form in the other room, and a single word pressing on his consciousness, half remembered from the night before: house-sitting.
These days he can fit at least three days in his backpack. The essentials are easy, a standard he has on call in the bag almost constantly: writing utensils (notebooks, pens, etc), iPod, a thick paperback, deoderant, and sunglasses. Clothes are rolled tight thereafter; it's surprising how much you can fit in this state, on average 3 shirts to 1 set of pants and jacket. Sometimes he'll pack a sleeping bag, for he owns one that compresses very well. Only at the end are the socks and jocks stuffed into any remaining spaces, a towel over the top if there's space (one can always be borrowed later if there isn't) and of course a plastic bag for laundry.
These days and nights between 'visits' home are a kind of purgatory, indeed there are times he's thought of home more as a storage shed; a place for all his shit, while his parents refer to it more as a hotel. Regardless, those days pass by in a blur, one blending into the other, each fundamentally the same, the morning spent in recovery, breakfast at noon, public transport to the next place to drop his bag, pre-drinks, go out, wake up on another couch. And when he finally finds himself back in his own bed, he'll wonder where the time went, he'll wonder what he's done, he'll wonder how much he's spent, he'll wonder how much he's eaten, he'll wonder what he's put off, what opportunities missed, what's building up... But though he wonder's all these things, he feels neither stress nor anxiety, no, that comes later, days or weeks away, wen over the smallest thing it'll all suddenly fill his mind once more, worrying pointlessly over this wasted youth; but for now he merely wonders, assessing the damage calmly, almost absently.
And then, worst of all, he'll wonder when he'll do it all again.

'The Reverie Apparatus'

The great machine
That makes this world turn so
Built of shape-shifting beings
An impossible engine
Changing so many times in a day
Unrecognizable from one moment to the next

It is made of dirt, of earth, of soil
Motionless, life moves about it
Secure in the fact that it will never change
The simplest form
Remains the same
Unrecognizable from one moment to the next

These are the lies we tell
These are the truths we hide
These are the dreams we remember
These are the realities we forget

Step behind the curtain a moment
Here they change their costumes
To one day throw away
Here they paint expression
To wipe from them, blank faces
Here they practice the lines they'll speak
To stumble when it means the most

At no point do they turn to the audience for praise
Nor smile and wink to the camera
Laugh it off
It's not a joke
Because the moment's passed
And it goes ever on

This is the truth
This is the dream
A point of view
A lost hope
All scattered images
In a sea of shadows

***

if it's worth telling
and if it's told well
it will last
it will grow
and its shape will shift
become something anew
to each that tell it
to each that it's told to

heroes fall
become villains
redeem themselves
and fall again for good
now watch them rise
now we rejoice
so we begin the dance anew

the machine makes another revolution
its shape contorts
as the engine shifts gear
the impossible becomes possible
the form intangible
and some of them
become the dust, the earth, the soil
they live on
beyond what they were before
and the others
a wisp of smoke
lost on the breeze
that we'd never know were there

it is the harsh logic of the machine
to judge what life be worth remembering
what soul worth being separate
or become a part of it.




"What makes the engine go? Desire, desire, desire"
- Stanley Kunitz

I'll Sleep When I'm Dead

He knew it was dangerous when he walked through those automatic doors, but dammit, he felt as if he'd been jibbed these last few weeks. The words that screamed out at him from the glass door confirmed as much. You've been paying too much, it derided him, you've been getting less for more. But look here, it suggests, nay, demands, we'll give you more for less. And weak as he is, he concedes, he makes the deal.
It's his standard study kit, a 4 pack of energy drink and a soft pack of smokes. Turbo cans of battery acid and those slim little soldiers of death. He takes solace in these simple pleasures, the bare honesty of them. This will keep you up, and this will kill you. Somehow seductive in their ugliness, the yellow-green liquid a radioactive pallor that washes over a tongue that tastes of ash and tar. Surely, he believes, this is what it must have been like to live at Pompeii when the mountain erupted, when the water turned to acid and the sky was full of foulness that belched forth from that arse-hole of the earth.
He rests his chin on his hands, lit in the pale-blue glow of the computer screen, and silently curses his subject, the cold outside, and himself. He sniffs the lingering scent of cigarette smoke about his fingers, and the nicotine that flows through his veins nags at the back of his mind for more. It won't hurt, it whispers seductively, there'll be plenty left afterwards. And he feels ashamed for a second.
There will be plenty left, he chides, because you just bought another pack.
Couldn't last a night, not an hour, because damned if he'll sit here the whole time, and damned if he'll venture outside without a decent reason. But, fool that he was, he decided to leave his existing pack at home, trudging over to the 24 hour lab with all the noble intention that he wouldn't have another this night, savoring each drag of the roadie that rested delicately between index and middle finger, and missed his usual detour. The servo shone like a beacon to his right, and he passed it by without a second thought. So it was that an hour passed, reading words that soon seemed to blur into one another, random jumbles of letters in groups and patterns, and none making sense. His mind began to shut down, even beneath the blare of fluorescent lights, and as he scrambles for his bag, he realises his mistake, for it is empty, and he is without not only his smokes, but his energy. So he packs up, rugs up, and journeys out into that intolerable cold. Melbourne in late April, he thinks, should not be so cold, even at 1 in the morning. But then, after the Summer they've just had, he'd forgotten what 5 degrees felt like, and without a doubt he was getting re-aquainted now.
So in he walks, the servo warm and inviting, the slightly pleasurable stink of petroleum to his back, and he sees it. He feels cheap after he grabs them, the Mother only $2 less than the Red Bull, but then, it is also twice the size. More for less vs. less for more, who would you think would win? And as he approaches the counter, before he can check himself, he makes the standard order, "a soft pack of stuyvy classics". Now that it's been said, he won't go back on it (a stupid rule if there ever was one, but a man's got to stick to his word, or what does anything mean?) and here he is, stuck with another pack. To think he'd planned on quitting come Sunday morning.
He stands outside, ignoring the cold that pierces through his jeans, and takes pleasure in the billowing cloud that follows each exhalation, all the more impressive with the fog that accompanies it in the cold night air, trying, and failing, to make rings with the smoke. The ground, he notices, is littered with used butts, as he spits like a camel between drags and bobs his head in time to the music. Ah yes, the final ingredient to a sleepless night: speed metal. Hyped up on caffeine and guarana, his arms would flail about in time to the frantic drumbeats, but for the prescence of the other smokers on the boardwalk. Other lost souls determined to complete assignments in the dead of night, free of daytime distractions, secluded from procrastination that so hounds them at home or with friends, or facebook. For this late, even the networking sites remain quiet, their frequenters, for the most part, soundly asleep at these late hours.
He passes more of them on their way out, cigarettes already in hand with anticipation, and he thinks that before it became habit and addiction, they began simply to break up the long hours, just as he, a reason to walk away from the mind-numbing process that waited patiently on their computer screens. And when he cracks open another can of Mother, the snap-hiss reminding him of cigarette lighter, he wonders if similarly he's developing an addiction to the energy drink, begun out of necessity, until he can't function without it in these, the only hours he finds himself able to work. Midnight to 6am are his hours. The only time he can find the motivation, because here he only wants to leave, but wont allow himself, instead pinned to his seat, thrashing at keys to bring himself up to date. More and more he's found himself here on weeknights, into the wee hours and more, returning home in time for a shower, a coffee, and toast, and enough time that he may safely watch a film before class begins, but not enough that he feels comfortable taking a powernap, sure of the fact that he won't awaken till long after his class has come and gone. So the days roll by, so he wonders when it was he last had a full and satisfying nights sleep, so he wonders when he'll next find the time for one. For the weekend appraoches, and that brings with it its own challenges.
The weekend is what he most looks forward to, when he'll abandon sleepless nights to complete work in exchange for sleepless nights to go out. To socialise. To drink and watch the rest of the world and its problems fade into the background before a swirl of music and colour and women.
Sleep can wait, he thinks then, caught up as he is in this reckless abandon.
When the cigarettes rot his lungs.
When the caffeine wears out his heart.
When the liquor finally causes his liver to fail.
When the drugs reduce his once potent mind to a pulp.
I'll sleep when i'm dead.

'Somebody Else's Blues'

It's cries echo out into the night
Amidst the glow of a spotlight on station steps
His clothes unkempt as he
Picking at strings, sits
Upon all that he owns
Worn but for the body he cradles
The neck his fingers caress
With utmost respect
Spilling out wordless thoughts
Emotions lingering in the air
Halting those about in their tracks
Feet held in its power, captive
The trams that pass by, a percussion to his song
Street music by neon light
The hope the city brings, and the sorrow of dreams past
"Taking the last train home" he sings
A prophecy of youth, a promise of the night
And beside him
His shadow rests, ever watchful
In a coat of black fur, loyal guardian
Of the life inside the guitar case