Stains On Scooters

I saw two kids on scooters today. I wondered why they weren’t in school. The taller one wore a cap that said ‘Element’ and his fat was mushrooming over his pants. They both looked at my care with the same bored expression. They told me that there was a fire and there school had burned down. They told me someone had poured petrol on a pile of desks and bibles and watched the whole damn thing burn down. They told me they had gone to watch the fire-fighters put it out. Black smoke framed them against a blue sky. The fire had been so hot it had tanned their skin to leather. They had been scratching at their arms waiting for the feeling to return, the fat one didn’t think it ever would.

School was like that, it burns things into you until you have no feeling. The little one had looked scared by  the arrival of my car but now he had relaxed his grimace into a sort of feverish pleasure. I think he lit the match and if he didn’t he knew who did.

The tall one was a dope, probably too stupid to be involved. I don’t think he had the concentration to plan for crime. He looked like a beer can with his smile all stretched out and eyes permanently surprised. I wonder if they know how to play chess. They look like they know nothing of strategy.

Maybe I could teach them. But they are gone and the smoke stains my clothes still.

What has been happening

So, for the last couple of weeks I have been inactive on this site. It isn’t because I have been lazy or any of those concepts that usually hold back a write, but because I have been writing for a technology blog called salad social. The last month has been intense in the sense that I am writing upon ideas I am not familiar with.

Below is the links to the three articles I have written so far and I will continue to post links to these stories as I begin to pick up pace.

http://saladsocial.com/903/avengers-initiative-the-big-green-fighting-machine/

http://saladsocial.com/991/myspace-yourspace-ourspace-nospace/

http://saladsocial.com/803/a-parade-of-misgivings-the-apple-court-cases/

I am done with being lazy or feeling washed up. I am reading again which is always a good sign. Good reading leads to good writing.

My friend Angus wrote a script for a comedy television show and his idea has been accepted for Bris 31. I hope that I will be able to support him and watch him grow as a capable writer. Below are a couple of poems I have contributed to his show and which I hope he will use.

Another of my friends, Rhys, is writing so consistently that I am almost jealous. I feel elation that he achieving so much of what he wants to do.

That is my updates on creative fronts. I am working on some ideas at the moment, beginning to design a drama/comedy/black humor with Angus, and am going to write a Sci-Fi story about a futuristic prison which is designed to regulate itself..

My band is playing two gigs this week which I am quite proud of, things are really getting better all the time.

And she is still with me.

All of these things help me when I am alone. Because when I am alone I am screaming at oblivion. Undulating pressure upon my skull and body are what hurts the most. But I am happy.

Also new computer.

Poems

The Second Hand Man
I. The Little Hand
He appears like a joker in a fresh deck,
and looks like a rattle snake in a scrap.
His voice is an air-conditioning unit
at full power in the middle of a heat wave.
His beard is a ragged patchwork quilt hanging
from his ears, which are two candles burnt down.
His eyes, hazard lights, flashing in the dark,
warning travellers of danger.
On his top lip is a tar road, badly in need of repair.
Above his eye, a crash site where a satellite landed.
His walk is a steam powered engine.
His confidence, a sexually transmitted disease.
His cock is an Ibis beak, pecking at leftover trash.
His knees are dirty like a catholic priest.
His sweat is a Coolangatta whore on a hot summer night.
His blood is caramelised tree sap.
He dresses as if derelict was a fashion statement.
His grease trap hair runs silver, where a gold mine once had been.
His fantasy is **/**/*****/**/******
and is too violent to be read in Australian Literature.
His soul is platinum, a catalyst for sulphuric acid,
which slowly dissolves his mind.

On Seeing the Killing of a Great White
They’ve done it now.
These sad sacks of bones
and blood
have caught me,
using barbaric spears
and rope.
It isn’t their fault,
I have put on some weight lately
to the point where I scare myself
in the mirror. But what
does it matter now.
Nothing is more slimming then death.
I thought a holiday in New Zealand would be good.
All the Tuna a shark could want.
Instead they showered me in bullets,
and made me clean and holy.
It is sad though,
I wanted to open a chain of Gourmet Pizza restaurants,
with pasta as a side, maybe some calzones
made from backyard ingredients. But now,
my dreams are shattered like the bullets in my sides.
I believe that this is a hate crime,
They slaughtered me for being a shark.
Now I lay here before their eyes,
my rubbery skin forming bark,
and all the children gather around
so many questions they wish to ask.
“What are you?” They will chime.
I am nothing more than a victim.
For my only crime, was writing a cheque
that bounced and I did eat one of their children.
I know that sounds horrible,
and he is still stuck in my teeth.
But from a shark, what do you expect?
We don’t have a consistent income.