No Time To Wait In Line

By Moss at Verona on K road

I walked into Verona past the polynesian bartender making idle chit chat with a flame haired broad. She was guarding her icy beers with a watchful eye, they stood like identical twins languishing on the wooden bar. One of the glasses looked slightly shorter as it had been drunk from more. I wondered where the woman's partner had gone, the unknown mans thirst only partially quenched. Upbeat music was being played by a worn out dj propped up on energy drinks. He was fast approaching the end of his poorly attended set. I couldn't place the dj's ethnicity but he looked pleasant enough spinning his last lovesick song of the night. Outside the windows open at the front of the bar framed the drunken passerby's walking some happy, some beautiful, some lost deep in thought. Cruising to the back of the restaurant i found the loo hidden behind a heavily posted corner wall. The stall was remarkably clean, smelling of pine woods yet to be defiled. I was glad my gamble had paid off. Struck with bored inspiration I had ditched the line queuing up at Neck of the Woods. All the ravers on ecstasy or rat poison had suddenly needed to relieve themselves of the excessive amounts of water they had been drinking. I was rather glad not to be one of them as the toilet line was sprawling out for miles like the great wall of china. In a cunning ploy I had torn up the dimly lit stairs in my dark leather boots to get some fresh air. I then wandered down K rd walking slightly faster than usual and was rewarded with a vacant restroom awaiting my arrival. Sometimes things just pan out the way you planned them and it's a glorious feeling.

Drunken Nostalgia

I saw the woman again after many years. After a while she saw me. 

I was only a hairs breathe from her. It was only a couple days out until xmas. 

She was standing neatly amongst the exotic teas surrounded by floral aromas in the St Luke’s tea shop. I remembered her perfectly as a girl from school who 

dyed her hair. Sometimes she would wear to much make-up at all when she

really didn’t have too. Her skin was fair even though she was part maori 

and enjoyed preforming Kapa-Haka. The last time i saw her face must have

seven years or more ago.

In the interim she had become rather plump, but in the most splendid way.

Her bottom always large in my hazy memory was now enormous easily double

if not triple the size of what i recalled. By the grace of God i swear upon your 

beating heart haha I nearly had a heart attack when i saw her turn round.

After a moments with memories performing backstroke in my head I slowly realised 

she was wearing a boring grey jersey around her body. She was trying to conceal 

maybe even restrain her fine  architecturally designed curves. 

I almost chuckled, as if a woman alone could hold back the raging tsunami 

that was her surging femininity. In many ways the woman reminded me of

a deep crush of mine being Nigella Lawson, except the girl now a woman 

was much younger and without a famous name. My thoughts then returned 

to her body to which I  do feel guilty for sexualising without consent or approval. 

Her breasts were round and vast like bumbling twin moons happy and gay in 

each others company. Her nose forever her finest feature remained angular 

and as lopsided as ever, giving her flare and character, one could never hope to

 achieve such asymmetrical beauty with the help of expensive plastic surgery. 

My eyes also noticed how her healthy jawline remained intact as well as her

protruding cheekbones that would easily slice the toughest french baguettes like butter.

When she cast her gaze upon me I sensed she was ill at easy. Insecure in her body, 

she seemed as if she had been through a taxing war of emotional disappointment since last I saw her. I thought wisely about pouncing on herald making trivial chit chat to try re-establish our paper thin high school connection, but was unsure. She seemed slightly 

frightened almost tearful and the last thing i wanted was to bring her dis-comfort.

 If i had talked to her, which In hindsight I should’ve had I not been a coward,  

i would’ve told her in all  sincerity how serenely beautiful she looked the night 

before Christmas eve. Perhaps in my drunken state of mind I may have even rabbited

on about how she looked far more stunning than i remembered her all those years ago

as a skittish snot-nosed girl in the eternal bloom of her youth.

Blocked by a Beautiful Stranger on Instagram

 

I felt a pang of sadness well up inside me when i realised she had blocked me on Instagram. I searched my conscience to filter back through time to see if i had been rude or mean. It came up blank. She had such fine features, Da Vinci himself would've struggled to render her onto white canvas. Her personality was so free spirited and zany. I felt rather devastated. On the scale of past hurts the pain was slight, a mere flesh wound. 

Yet at the same time it felt as if both my arms had been sliced from my body like the black knight from Monty Python.

Deep down I knew she would never know how such a small unthinking act of hers had flattened me. It took extra effort to get out of bed the next morning after being confronted by the bad news that I had been discarded. For all intents and purposes I had been declared surplus to requirements. The woman, someone, I had grown to adore in the most innocent of ways had left.Slowly I realised we were strangers even though we shared the same city and love of burgers. It was obvious now we lived in two vastly different circumstances, our circles would never intersect, unless dumb luck intervened. 

Over the coming days my love for her slowly evaporated 

into the dry cracks of my heart. Then one evening rain clouds gathered outside my window and let down a torrent of rain. I woke up and heard the cry of the wind as I hugged my worn pillow under my blanket. The lack of stars in the next sky only intensified my sadness and irrational sense of loss, and yet I was still glad I had loved her, in my own gentle unsuspecting kind of way. The only way I knew how!

Zombies and Asteroids

Sometimes we all get fatigued and can’t be bothered stepping

down into the muddy cesspit of humanity. Together in groups or alone humans beings become identical when you weigh up  how they live. I believe it was Warhol who said whether your rich or poor Coca-Cola taste equally as good to you. So the woman flaunting her green diamonds is really no different to the poor unwashed beggar sleeping in a bus shelter. Both eat, drink, sleep and have unfulfilled wishes. It's the same with the sunburnt men bickering drunk while smoking expensive cigars in late afternoon. All the fat self-confessed know it alls have absolutely no idea why they're alive, each one knowing far less than the next. 

From a view educated by common sense, almost everyone seems to have the same generic facial expression photocopied across their faces. To hell with these people, impostors, fakes. What is the point of their stupid vacuous lives, like worn plasticine drooping from a rented ceiling they're destined to die like plants left out in the sun to long. No matter how much money they amass or alcohol they consume in time they will perish.

In this super-city of millions, Auckland, the sense of irony is that one can still struggle to find someone to dance or sing with even hold a meaningful conversation. Long gone are the days where courtship flared like lightning over a shared mulled wine in a cheap restaurant. I wouldn't go so far as to say that cerebral conversation was dead. But I would say it was dying, on life support, struggling to pay the bills with the doctors santized finger looming precariously over the white hospital switch. 

    

Drones, zombies, even spitting cobras are transformed into arrogant office workers in the mid-day sun. With their cynical spreadsheets and exotic cups of coffee they mull about as indistinguishable as over-sized ants crushed under the obscene weight of society. The last remnants of their fractured self is liquified by their bosses who control like Hollywood directors every action of there bad acting. Like caged animals bankers, accountants, lawyers all wander back and forth slowly breaking into pieces. Their brains reduced to pink putty ooze out across their new clear desks. The overworked zombies, men and woman alike they all seem so unloved, as if they were tortured in Guantonmo bay with a continuous loop of Eminem songs. After work the all simply fall apart like children's toys discarded and thrown into trash cans everywhere in the CBD. There human emotions bought for a pittance and manufactured and sold back to them in the form of flatscreen tv's with a Netflix's subscription not included. 

I still didn’t want a microscopic thing to do with these Camusian strangers. Even if they were destined to become the unfeeling leaders of our corrupt draconian world. These proletariat lords lingered heavy over me like a symphony of crying rain clouds reducing the world to grey, and yet like soggy unread newspapers the zombies were remarkably beautiful, even necessary to justify the whole of human achievement. For amongst the heaving madness of human society with all its mindless depravity one could still find glass shards of splinted miracles. Time and time again all throughout history a rainbow unicorn or a sharpened needle would be haphazardly tossed into the infinity of space. By the hand of beauty the oldest living Goddes who still breathed in deeply the smoggy air of our blue planet. She alone was truly Unbroken, love, gave life too all and sustained the growing nightmare of life in concrete deserts. Amongst the unfeeling and pitiful human's some rare souls still existed like love propelled asteroid's crashing landing into barren lives with the power to electrify reality.

Merry Christmas

I caught up with Santa Claus earlier in the week. He told me it was a tough parking the sleigh up in the St Lukes car park. Apparently the reindeer weren't happy due to the lack of snow. I asked him if he could give my sweet niece Desdemona a toy for Christmas, he said he would have to check his two lists. I told him if she wasn't on the good list there must've been a mistake! All she wanted for Christmas was a brand new Ferrari so her uncle Mossy could drive her to playgroup, that might've had something to do with it 😂🎄

I heard it was you - Only a Fool would say that

A Place Where Time Never Ends

Stupid Decisions

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One Foot in the Underworld

The girl was on drugs. 

She wore all black to disguise the fact

that she was a colourful mess. 

To anyone who had loved her they could 

quickly see the life-force draining from her body. 

Her jaw squeaked and rocked in her face 

struggling to find the middle centre point. 

Her once beautiful pearl white teeth had begun 

to erode at a rapid rate. The cocktail of ingested 

chemicals were turning her teeth a corrosive brown colour,

they looked as if they had been stained overnight by Coca-cola.

More worrying was the state of her petit body 

and the mental diss-array of her mind.

Death was stalking her in Asphodel’s meadow.

To the untrained eye she would simply resemble 

a worthless and detestable drug addict. 

But this wasn’t always so, at one time she had been 

a cherished family friend loved by all, especially 

the hopeful adult children of a certain middle-class family.

She had even been a maid of honour at the first born

daughters wedding. The same woman accelerating towards decline 

had once been the picture of health before being ripped 

down the centre by vice and schizophrenia.

Late one night she crawled into the backyard 

and lay comatose in our purple whicker chair.

She came to our home, the only one she knew

naively offering an assortment of drugs for consumption.

She wanted to trigger off a ballroom tango of 

dopamine and sertonin in the brain of any person 

stupid enough to accept her offer. We all collectively 

refrained from partaking and also judging the wayward soul.

On the contrary the desire to plummet towards death death 

was not upon us with any urgency. Or the need to short circuit the human brain

causing irreparable damage and kaleidoscope mania.

She was in the iron grip of the vortex, struggling to 

differentiate dreams and hallucinations from unwanted reality.

The thought fled through my mind hiding behind a walnut tree

to cast the defenceless incapacitated girl into the night.

I mentally weeped for a moment then thought better of it.

This grown woman had transformed artificially into a child

and had slipped with a thud back into the agony of drugs.

Some bastard Hopper must have supplied her after 

cleaning her small rented room from top to bottom.

Despite her habitually lying haze 

I knew that she needed to be cared for. 

I made her thrice cups of tea and waited

out her long drawn out siege upon the living. 

A peppermint tea was enough to drive her out an hour before midnight.

After chain smoking ten cigarettes in a row  

she decided to wander the streets again looking desperately 

for something she would never find. 

Five hours later she posted before her ramshackle departure 

in eloquent prose:

to my sweetest of devotions. i love you forever....

The Killer in My Dreams

In front of me there’s a smashed in door

with a burnt out body inside.

The killer is scuttling around on the loose.

I can hear his feet padding around noisily.

I steal second and steady my breathing, my thoughts

racing into the recesses of my neocortex.

My desire to survive is overpowering.

This demands that I too my must become a killing machine

to escape this deadly encounter.

The hunt is on and I only know three things about

the assailant. He is male, armed

with a shotgun and has only one

shoulder. His slight of frame allows

him to hide in crevices and slide into

passages most men would get stuck in.

He may be a worth adversary only time will tell.

I will likely need my whole combined strength

mental and physical to take him down.

With a last gulp of metallic oxygen I burst through

the blood covered door shouting. I see him in the corner stunned,

everything turns to slow motion. Gun shots rattle

the walls like a child’s play toy. I am hit twice ripped flesh and blood leaking out my leg like spaghetti, but he lays motionless twitching.

As he lays dying it turns out I only knew two things about him.

He actually had two shoulders the myths and rumours were wrong.

Now he just looked like something resembling week old roadkill.

Who said hunting criminals was hard obviously never did,

the only thing tough about it was not turning into one yourself.