Garden City
Friday night in a cold bright store. Everything looks more buyable under the lights.I am listening to Explosions in the Sky, slow-motion rock as I watch my feet one after the other pushing myself around the aisles.
Seven thirty on Friday night in a temple to consumerism. I am jostled by a fat woman. This is Mt Gravatt. Even in a deserted store, fat women jostle me. I imagine that one day I will meet an interesting woman in the canned vegetables aisle but no one looks twice at me.
No one ever thinks, he might be the solution to my problem. But I probably am. Because all you need is love, and I have plenty. Love, a big cock and a certain ability to find the clitoris. What else could you want in a man? I even do poetry.
Eight in the PM in the fruit section. Most of the fruit is a bit tatty, some rotten. It would have been good to eat a while ago. Hey, a metaphor. Next I will be talking about crushing the juice out of the orange and throwing the useless peel away and...
The girl on the checkout looks tired and unhappy. She tries a wan smile. I smile back. I am thinking about unbuttoning her blouse. She is thinking about the homework she still has to do.
The Smegma is alone in a carpark with a hundred spaces. I drive into a dark warm night. I blink away tiredness, dazzled by the lights of oncoming cars. It is starting to rain. On Creek Road, an old woman is crossing the street without looking, her head bowed, shutting out a world that can kill you in an instant if it's not looking where it's driving.
posted by Dr Zen @ 9:41 am
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