The Conga And The Whale

 

A child played in the second bedroom, perhaps writing in a diary or colouring in, being careful to keep between the lines. She was perched on top of a pile of old receipts and ledgers. Old like the dot matrix printers that spat out the future with every laboured grunt, as we gazed in amazement. She wore socks but no shoes.

 The kitchen had at some stage been converted to the master bedroom. The morning paper was open and the white sheet was casually strewn upon the bed.  Empty tins of sardines, the remnants of breakfast and as I looked out of the window I gazed upon a handsome woman, perhaps someone that had been loved right in this spot. Idyllic yet I thought the antichrist had been. At least, the right side up.  The wine had been drunk, good times and the light fell, just so, across the walls adorned with art.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 And then I saw the sky and I could have been anywhere. In my childhood home, colouring between the lines. In my first flat drinking five buck plonk by scented candlelight and sparking up to a backdrop of good friends and eighties house before it was retro. Waking up in a strangers bed, the smell of nightclub on the clothes entwined beside me. Reading the paper on a Sunday, with the sound of someone in the shower and the smell of sex and coffee.

 

And as I stared at the sky that is above all of us I almost forgot I was a voyeur in a squatters world.  There but for the Grace of...

Thank you, props and shout outs at Tom Civil; Ryan McGennisken; Doctor; Be Free;
Suki; and Bon.