Some fucking philosopher bored me into a migraine and called forth the acid from my stomach. Dorothy Porter finished and I fled Sappho's and hit Glebe Point Rd in full flight. I cranked the volume on some shit french dub and stood like a silo waiting to cross City Rd counting the money in my wallet, not even enough for dinner at the Lansdowne in that crap echo chamber of a mess hall. The pain in my head pushed through the gilt edged bubbles of the passengers on the 428 so I ditched that fucking bus just down from the Vanguard on King St.
Some nights Newtown glows refulgent, all you need is a soft rain and the time shifting imitation of a migraine. My neck was having trouble holding onto my head and the need for food went feral so I took my last $3 and bought the biggest thing I could, some kind of pizza bread, rectangular and big as my head. I was walking and chewing, the paper bag turning to grease in my right hand, my left hand leaving trails of cigarette smoke. I stoked the engines and took King St in fury of walking and chomping down that shit sour last dollar dinner.
Crossing the empty square the sourness worked its way down and I bent my head against the rain, bite for bite I took that fucker on until the crowds thinned and I swallowed the last of it outside the first funeral parlour. I was shaking off words like dandruff, a nicotine powered human machine each stride longer than the last. I was pushing air and thought and words through this veseled thing.
Across the road from the Enmore Theatre the pain in my head went supersonic so I cranked the volume on Lou Reed and lit another cigarette, double time. I swung right at the Sultan's Table downhill upright opening my chest pushing my palms down and out, thinking only by slaps on the soles of my feet.
By the time I crossed Liberty St time lifted upwards and I was breathing strong machine breaths straight through my diaphragm into my hips, breathing smoke out through an open mouth. Charging up the hill smoking and running through the rain I cranked the klezmer and pushed against all this gravity. Smashing into The Peach with the acid and the pain and the sour taste of the footsteps of Newtown I thought, I am well enough to walk again.
Now I'm sitting in the yellow chair in front the cupboard full of fuck knows what from the old house. I'm thinking about something a friend once said and wishing it was a lie.
I don't recommend writing a blog post whilst feeling like a steam train engine is inside your head, results may disappoint no matter how many excellent words you carelessly shed into the street.
Some nights Newtown glows refulgent, all you need is a soft rain and the time shifting imitation of a migraine. My neck was having trouble holding onto my head and the need for food went feral so I took my last $3 and bought the biggest thing I could, some kind of pizza bread, rectangular and big as my head. I was walking and chewing, the paper bag turning to grease in my right hand, my left hand leaving trails of cigarette smoke. I stoked the engines and took King St in fury of walking and chomping down that shit sour last dollar dinner.
Crossing the empty square the sourness worked its way down and I bent my head against the rain, bite for bite I took that fucker on until the crowds thinned and I swallowed the last of it outside the first funeral parlour. I was shaking off words like dandruff, a nicotine powered human machine each stride longer than the last. I was pushing air and thought and words through this veseled thing.
Across the road from the Enmore Theatre the pain in my head went supersonic so I cranked the volume on Lou Reed and lit another cigarette, double time. I swung right at the Sultan's Table downhill upright opening my chest pushing my palms down and out, thinking only by slaps on the soles of my feet.
By the time I crossed Liberty St time lifted upwards and I was breathing strong machine breaths straight through my diaphragm into my hips, breathing smoke out through an open mouth. Charging up the hill smoking and running through the rain I cranked the klezmer and pushed against all this gravity. Smashing into The Peach with the acid and the pain and the sour taste of the footsteps of Newtown I thought, I am well enough to walk again.
Now I'm sitting in the yellow chair in front the cupboard full of fuck knows what from the old house. I'm thinking about something a friend once said and wishing it was a lie.
I don't recommend writing a blog post whilst feeling like a steam train engine is inside your head, results may disappoint no matter how many excellent words you carelessly shed into the street.
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