I miss the sun.
I started working nights, which is convenient in a lot of ways: no traffic to work, penalty rates, cool moonlit motorbike rides home at five in the morning.
Now, it’s winter, so the sun’s only getting limited stage time and I I ain’t seeing even half of the whole show.
Wake up at two, coffee, exercise, shower, breakfast, laundry & tidy.
Now it’s four thirty in the afternoon and I stand on my balcony and watch the sun fall away on the horizon, I feel the heat recede with it, making me shiver and turn inside.

There        is        something,        de-motivational about the night.
Something  primal that urges me to retreat back to my space. Something lodged in the lizard part of my brain telling me: stay in your cave: it’s scary out there.
It’s not so bad, I don’t mind being alone in my cosy yellow light with a few books and my laptop, and my housemates get home in the afternoon and it’s nice, to talk to them.

But then, when their conversations grow animated, when drinks and meals are shared, when the real affection of of our little community comes out, I leave into the darkness to sling drinks.

The warmth, the light of the sun, and of this little clique, I miss.

via Daily Prompt: Sunny



I never liked bourbon.
One night,
It was the only liquor in the house.

Kinda how, I wasn’t for her, until I was the only one around.

See now; I learnt to like bourbon, I still do, a little, but I don’t choose it first.

So I guess I shouldn’t blame her.

I don’t blame my tastebuds.
Some things just don’t taste so good.

Local nocturnals

Its one am and of I’m not sleeping because I don’t generally until around four, but I can’t relax in my room, there’s a girl asleep in there who needs to be up for work at five.
So I listen to a podcast which mentions Fritz Haber and now it’s two-thirty and I’m coming out of a wikipedia rabbit hole about The Battle of Ypres, the Kennedy curse, Lobotomies as behaviour modification and how effective is modern bulletproof glass.
I feel like some company, so I throw on a hoodie and head out the front door.

I get to the 7/11 after ten minutes walking alone on a cool starlit morning and feel welcomed by the automatic doors admitting me smoothly, the door sensor letting off a small noise to let the clerk know I’m here and worthy of attention.
Rashad greets me warmly; there’s a certain kind of kinship amongst people who live in the sunless half of life, a type of camaraderie that always forms amongst people populating the less desirable.
We talk, small but loud in the halogen wash of the gas station, lords of the night, surveyors of the domain.
We talk sports, women, work, how the world is fucked up and if we were in charge how it wouldn’t be; banter that goes nowhere but doesn’t need to.

The talk tapers off, naturally, he gives me an expired krispy kreme and I head back to my dark and occupied room. She’ll wake up soon, and head to her day job, I’ll head to bed.
Lovely girl, but not one of us.



I work at a bar right, and sometimes we have specials right, where the price of a popular cocktail drops from $18 to $6 for one hour.
The place is packed, this is a fantastic deal,  hundreds on hundreds of espresso martinis are sold,  for only a third of their regular price!

People are happy and so they should be, they are smart consumers, capitalising on an opportunity, buying multiple before the deal runs out, what a bargain!

Shot of vodka, shot of coffee liqueur, shot of espresso, dash of simple syrup; total cost to make $1.62, (don’t forget your overheads, wages and such)
Time to make, around 40 seconds, if multiple at once, even less.
Everyone wins!



I said I’d learn the guitar, promised myself. Listed the positives it would have on my life, the wholesome pleasure it would bring, watched a motivational video, bought a guitar.

I start practicing and 5 minutes in my fingers were etched with pain from the steel strings, I stop.
The next day, it hurts more.
The next day, even more.

A few days later, a little less.
The next day, not at all.
There are little calluses where the pain used to come from.
It does makes me happy.



A woman has lost her child, his name is Joseph, she’s sobbing, the police have arrived.
As I learn this I change my route home to go through places I imagine a small child might find interesting, the waterfront, the cemetery, no luck.

As I arrive at my street I have an tinge of conscience.

I could keep looking, but I’ll be late for work, I need this job, but what if he’s hurt, but how much help would I be anyway, the police can handle it, but the look on her face, the police know what to do, it’s not too much time, I’ll be late for work, I need this job, he’ll be fine, but what if he’s not, I need this job.

I turn the down the street.

As I run past the next day, I see Joseph playing happily in the street under the exaggerated hawk eyes of his mother. She smiles broadly and thanks me for my help, yesterday. He’d just gotten lost and had taken a nap.

I smile back, chance having given me a free pass on my terrible priorities, this time.


If you live in a cul-de-sac, like I do, on the exit lane side, like I do, you probably know as well as I do, how it adds a little excitement to your life.

You see, in a regular street, someone coming to visit pulls into your driveway, someone who is not coming to visit, keeps going. There isn’t any real anticipation.
But a cul-de-sac! Unless their recipient lives on the entry lane side, the driver is going to do a loop, so you see the brief flash of car and maybe, they’re coming back to see you.
Or maybe they’re not, or maybe they’re lost, or maybe they’re delivering parcels, but regardless, there’s always that moment of possibility.

That’s why I put my desk next to the window; the chance, the loop.


Daily Prompt: Meddle

via Daily Prompt: Meddle

My evening was supposed to consist of listening to angsty rock, typing some bullshit and trying to learn the guitar for the 45th time and stopping five minutes in because the tips of my fingers hurt. That was all there was supposed to be.

Now I’m laying here on my bed, laptop resting on it’s namesake lap and Audrey, little cat of the house, has decided to come and show me affection for the first time in however long.  Taking up position on my abdominals, she renders me unable to click clack fruitlessly away at the keyboard as I had been.

It wouldn’t take much to move her along, just a gentle nudge and she’d be off, not offended, just continuing her night. I raise the banishing hand, ready to apply slight pressure to her side and maintain my progress at whatever the fuck I was doing.

But you know, it’s not so bad actually. I wasn’t really doing so much. you can keep sitting there like a purring puddle of fur, I guess. I could scratch your ear, you aren’t really meddling.

When she leaves a few minutes later, to investigate a noise in the kitchen, I notice a faint smile on my face.

Rock Star at 11

Albion, the itinerant rocker housemate is in the kitchen. He looks very content, but also burnt the fuck out. I know he lives an exciting life, each day a new adventure, which I’m sure gets monotonous in itself. He just returned from playing a festival upstate and I’m always keen to hear his stories, but this time is a little different.

He starts off with a surprisingly short recollection of his performances, ends it and jumps straight into the life story of a fellow muso he met at the place, whose life has been, for use of an overused term, epic.

Scott, the 19 year old prodigious thrasher, headlining the show, has been touring since he was 11 years old, his dad, not putting any stock in traditional education, took him on tour with his paternal band before him, hardcore rock ‘n’ roll all the way. He picked up a guitar and never doubted for a second that his calling had been delivered into his hands, pre-ordained and holy.
His rollicking life led him around the country in loops, over and over, delivering times to the fans who never forgot him, in this dying niche he was legend, grown men lamenting to their mates about this pubescent angel of rock who made them feel what they hadn’t felt in years.

From as young as possible, women fell at his feet, every vice was delivered to him, tasted, enjoyed, but never fallen victim to; he already found and delivered ecstasy every day with six thin strings.

Now that boy turned man was nearly a decade into this wild existence and confessed to Alby that while he still loved every second, he has anxiety about the future; he had already reached and sustained the highs that were most men’s wildest dreams, how long before it dimmed? Alby knew the answer, all he had to do to inspire was tell the tale of Lemmy, his hero, who raged against the dying of the light all the way, and all doubts would be assuaged, which they were.

Now Alby told me this tale with such enthusiasm that it left him spent, and these words here are but a poor carbon copy.
I lived vicariously for those minutes to the nth degree, maybe you can add one more.

Lemon & Ginger Tea

Three days into this cold, man flu, maybe face cancer or HIV actually (thanks webMD) and I’ve discovered lemon and ginger tea and it kicks this mucus’ ass.
It’s such a development, up until now I’ve just been eating greek yoghurt and frozen berries, marvelling at my own health conscientiousness and then getting fucking cold from eating frozen berries in winter with a cold and having to get back into bed.

So anyway, it’s coming up to my usual 3am bedtime and normally by now the ol’ eyelids are getting kinda droopy, few glasses of the ol’ shirazo helping them along, but tonight, not so much. Being the information loving new-age man I am, I have the sudden urge to read the packet of my tea, find the caffeine content and google how many mg equal a standard cup of coffee.

Turns out, a cup of black tea flavored with lemon and ginger has not insignificant caffeine content and I have had nine in the last two hours. I love knowing things.