We roamed Chinatown with foreigners like we were their colonizers.
These track-pants don’t physically help me run away from anything
But double digits on these prices remind me I’m farther now from where I started.
Evenings and oddities
Meaningful zeroes and pseudo heroes
Old childish games with young adults.
Spark another light
Who’s the person in my cell?
Why don’t we ever tell?
This is how we fight
Trophies of unaccomplished alcoholics;
Just for double digits from the corner store
Southern district tours.
Lives we watch with deathly sunsets
What do I really mean?
Street puddle reflections
Who do you really see?
Money talks loud
But then there’s me
No texts from me (nor her) tonight. Who knows what I’ll wake up to in the morning or afternoon today? Certainly not another meaningless woman or regrets from town, but that’s okay, I don’t need people or things to validate my life for me like that. High-school pettiness like that should only stay there; in fact, let’s just get rid of it altogether – let’s teach the kids how to be themselves instead and plenty more. Growing up; seeing everything, and everyone for both what they are and what they can be; I want to mean something profound to someone in the same way this city is to me. Let’s talk again when we’re on suitable wavelengths, okay?
Here’s a relevant playlist to keep you in tune with me (get it?)
Where’s the honey-dips at?
From the neck of the woods to the city’s waterfront,
looking for next ex-girl I run.
Religious rendezvous with the Moon and Sun at 5:00am;
please just tell me who I am.
Money keeps talking in here,
I’m in a hurtful relationship with my liver,
my lungs keep asking for a breath of fresh air,
my stomach growls and shivers.
It takes a city to raise a child like you and I,
our youthful blues crew just won’t die
yet it’s you who keeps driving your loved ones mad;
where’s your truth?
I held you and her down for 6 summers,
it was all for the better,
still the liquor in both of your livers only makes you two dumber.
My children lay on her thighs, her back and stomach for most nights.
I catch trains, she catches flights.
I hate the late bus-rides on this side;
it’s time for us to steal an OnzO bike.
Sometimes I wonder who’s still bothering to read these, is it the women I called thieves, or the friends I tried to leave. To the ladies of my life, I know you’re from the valleys and I’m from the ditches, but we’ve got shared trials and tribulations I try to put under our bridges. Will we be alright? I seem to see and meet so many of your lookalikes; sometimes I wonder what the rain is like on your side. I just wanna be with you, it’s true, but we juxtapose each other like red and blue. Opposites attract, Hurtful words to you I can’t retract – I’m sorry.
Driving down Apirana Ave at 4:00AM with you reminds me of the other year. Good times we shared with brothers just as unfortunate as us. We all wanted go to sleep, and some of us have work later, but it’s getting early and there’s another round of Frozen Cokes on the Driver’s shout so why stay heated? $10 gas money was all I had to chip in and they covered the rest for the night; like a local gig in K Rd. This feels like summer once again. I missed you both. Rest in peace to the man I used to be; his days are over.
“Make me an overnight memory”,
Give you or turn you?
Her body’s both smooth and slippery,
She said I looked like Usher when I let it burn through,
We climax then jump tracks.
Paper-thin notes scattered in our rooms and pockets,
Not just money but it makes you more complacent.
The world’s already at your feet though.
Let it flow in the warm and bright white-wine light;
take me there again and we’ll meet when the time’s right.
Those walks of shame down Ponsonby to Britomart,
Everybody’s morning sobriety was what really made me feel insecure.
I thought University would make me smarter than that;
Sure, sure, sure.
Late nights in Silo Park,
Sketchy rides back to GI,
Midnight skies and Sunrise cries
Bitch, I told you I’d make it.
Alone in a crowded festival,
Dying in the heat of the sun, the people and my stomach
but still tryin to keep my cool.
Bitch, didn’t I tell you I’d make it?
Skinny dips in her jacuzzi, on the far right side of St. Heliers’ Beach at night.
Shifts on the radio for people I thought I’d never reach.
I know you sent me.
I’m being honest, you do.
I can tell from all the bits of us I always seem to stumble across,
Yet you’re just a thorn on the side of my rose.
Tobacco slips and honey dips,
Liquor sips and chainsmoking,
Money bags and Uber lifts.
What truly matters is the expression,
but you’ll never know.
20 more minutes then 20 more,
20 more minutes and 20 more.
Down in the backstreets of the City’s blood vessels and nerves,
she and I used to talk for hours about our worries and wait for the rain-showers.
She always cried when it never came.
I wanted to believe for months that we’d eventually feel the same.
Hopes of a better view than dreary bus-stops and homeless fiends,
we both eventually grew apathetic to the damage though
from all the fist-fights in the streets, crooked people and the police, empty cans, cigarettes and Red Wine-flow;
it only spelled the concluding complacency from our anger, the neglect we threw on our weekend-friends, and it ultimately predicted our ends.
Time really passes by like the people from the other side
and raindrops didn’t make it easier for us to let it slide,
but resentment stays forever if we’d never make amends.
We drove circles around each other for most nights,
Took a shot of this and that, hoping something blends
“Tear me apart already, what are you still waiting for?”
“Nothing. This isn’t a fight”
We’d sit still in a smoking room for hours, watching people come in and out of the door
“A change is gonna come sooner or later”
“I guess breaking you will be the hardest thing I’ve ever enjoyed”
Someone’s falling down from the balcony
where we spent a year watching our worlds burn away in.
Shattered glass lay all over the staircase we walk up with bare feet,
all from bottles that were as hollow as who we were trying to be.
You shift the blame onto me once more.
The cost of your success equated to being neglectful.
The cost of my success equated to being a martyr-figure for whoever.
I would never kill someone in their sleep,
I’d need them awake to see themselves die,
only then does their real character show their desires;
a want to live,
a want to let it end,
or start over.
Look at your flaws,
It oozes out of you through the way you speak,
like a bleeding paper cut.
You are nothing to me anymore.
The ashes from our old cigarettes are blown away by a careless wind.
I throw the used filters away since you won’t,
then I resurrect.