Fleur di lis

His mother was a junkie.
It made him cry.
His father was a cunt.
He did not care.
He twice ran away, he twice came home.
The second time was the worst.
That time he had no control.
He sent himself to oblivion,
but was chased into returning.
I guess one day he will thank that angel.
Today he must hate him.
His father played the saxophone. He played it well.
Used to play barefoot, said it was an ode to someone famous.
He never knew who. Neither did his dad.
They used to fight lots. I think he really missed her.
It hurt she had left him. Only to stay.
They were like droplets of rain, destined for explosion.
He didn't think it would happen the way it did though.
It made him reel, he forgot, it made him love.
Buried beside each other he sometimes visits.
Its on the way to his work.
He makes shoes. Or rather he makes old shoes better. He likes to repair things, always has.
One time he repaired his best friends record player.
They both liked the Stray Cats.
His mother gets irises, only in season. They were always her favourite.
Even in the haze.
His father gets whatever. He wouldn't give a fuck. Didn't give a fuck.
He drinks whiskey like in Westerns. Usually Jack Daniels.
His mother was a junkie.
His father was a cunt.

taking a leaf.....

The pins are white,they are shiny, they have crude drawings on them.
The boy is defined by his dapper bow tie and the girl by her sizable
but two dimensional breasts
with dots for nipples. They go together.
They sit patiently in their wooden frame ten feet high. Above the plush cinnamon carpet, impervious to their surroundings but content in their existence.
The man in the brown wool jersey listens to music loudly and sips red wine. His toes are cold but his face is hot. "Curious how different parts of the body contradict each other" he says "I suppose
it reminds you your alive" he continues.
The song playing builds to a crescendo. The man nods his head and taps his foot. He has always liked tapping his foot. That was the last song.
The album is over now.
He tops up the glass, its flavour now more agreeable.
Outside REM's 'Losing my Religion' has become the new soundscape.
The grey faced man plays it again. He will continue to play it until his hat is full.
His secret safe with the permanent fixtures.
After he will buy a drink.
Whiskey or gin.
Tonight there is a permanence to the man in the brown jersey.
Tonight there is no discord.

Dining with Angels

Last night marked the beginning of a new phase in the eating habits
of myself and several friends.
Over the course of a miserable Wellington evening we threw off the shackles of dicey Chinese takeaways and slap in the pan home cooked meals for one, we spat in the face
of sub standard ingredients, and we turned our back on our favoured wine merchants at Monty's superette. For this one night we became elite, we became The Supper Club.
Haha well maybe that is a slightly dramatic version of events but in any case last night saw
the first meeting of the newest gang in town the Supper Club.
The brainchild of a friend of mine (we will call him J) which emerged after
a favourable experience with the novel The Club of Angels in which a group of aristocrats meet regularly to entertain gargantuan and decadent feasts spiced with a dash of murder.
J being the sentimentalist he is suggested we follow suit and attempt to replicate these meetings but without the homicide.
Several of us agreed and I took it upon myself to play host to the first gathering.
What I didn't realise is that over the course of the evening perhaps the more apt name would have been the Discussion Club.
The meal was a largely simple affair consisting of a lamb roast, caprese salad and a improvised babybeet and feta salad which turned out to be a success despite my gross underestimation on the number of babybeet I would need.
This aside the food received a rad reception, the wine was outstanding as was the company.
The conversation however was deep and reflectively hilarious.
I have always been an advocate for getting involved in discussion as are many of my friends.
It is the most engaging thing about surrounding yourself with intelligent people.
However I would not have considered some of the topics which we seemed intent on hammering for vast periods of time once the fog of wine had settled on the evening.
I mean are we really qualified to comment on the relationship between a farmer and his work dogs when none of us have either farms nor work dogs? And is our spin on the merits of technical jazz verse classical accurate when all but one of us is musically illiterate?
Should our friend get a pager? Does the best form of an art come from limited means or is it a product of wealth? Cats verse Dogs and their emotions?
Yes I'm telling you folks all this and more was discussed as we imparted our well defined (hyper sketchy) points of view on each other with gusto and conviction.
It was brilliance in an evening and as I finish up this piece I can't help
but smile with anticipation at the thought of the next gathering and laugh at the knowledge if we ever get onto politics we are royally fucked.