An overgrown baby sits in a supermarket trolley. Long legs hang from an ill-fitting baby seat; a pacifier plugged firmly into his mouth. He cannot speak; cannot question nor protest; complain; request; reason; discuss. He can speak no evil.
His hands hold a portable DVD player. It plays a cartoon. Over-sized ear phones are rammed into his delicate ears. He can not respond to external noise; he is deaf to its calling. His world is insular, one in which only he can hear and understand.
Upon his machine, the action plays. To me the actions are nonsense without sound, but the eyes of the overgrown baby are fixated upon the screen, captivated by a sequence he has undoubtedly witnessed a million times over. He sees none who surround him. We move in his periphery like trees on a windy day; invisible like a breeze.
His parent drifts down an aisle, busy gathering necessary objects and foodstuffs from the shelves. His child is set up, armed and occupied so as not to bother anyone....and yetI am bothered, though for reasons the parent might not expect.
The streets trail endlessly behind me -
A prisoner on a tight leash.
A rubber high rise bends
To leer in jest through tinted windows.
Wardens wield coloured lights,
To hold the weary captive to their whims.
Conspiring concrete blocks crowd,
casting malicious shadows
From every street corner.
I've tried to outrun the city -
Reject it; forget it.
It will not cast me out -
And I am caught
In its continuous pattern -
Its infinite, mesmerising maze.
$600 a week? Since when did $600 a week become good rent in this cunt-of-a-town? $2400 a month - Christ! It's a decent enough joint I suppose, but when did $600 a week become do-able, desireable; something to punch the air about?
'Heaven knows, its just bricks and mortar', he says offhandedly, taking a swig of beer in the process.
I've got bricks and mortar, but they don't cost me $600 a week. My place is a dogs breakfast but. Needs a bloody grenade so I can start again. Perhaps I should be paying $600 a week?
'Some people pay much more', she says, 'much, much more', she adds, eyebrows raised, head doing a slow nod, as if she knows what she's on about.
I nod too, mechanically, trying to get my head around her justification.
'Rents are crazy', he said.
'Fucken oath Mate', I think, 'it's only bricks and mortar'.
Crude graphite scratches a harmony onto paper;
A tattoo of thoughts and ideas,
A scarring of images; internal rage and pain,
A lingering kiss filled with joy, humour and love
An etched still of lingering observation.
Fibres entwine here.
Graphite smudges across a perfect surface.
A trio of essences collide;
Mineral, mind, material.
Words are formed
Within the sacred bounds of my notebook.
Their decisive combination develops into meaning.
Spidery scrawls lumber across the manuscript.
Dark retractions blemish the page;
They symbolise process, not mistake.
Tear not a page.
Neither scrunch nor discard it.
Savour the process.
The pendulum will stop swinging at centre.
When energy ceases to swirl
The process, she is complete.