‘I’m sorry.’ She whispers softly beneath her breath. She is standing just meters in front of me, her hands hug her thin and unique body, her face, without expression is soft and delicate.
‘I was confused, I’m sorry, I was scared.’
‘Don’t be scared, I’m here now. You are so beautiful.’ I say as I watch her eyes tense with tears. ‘Come here, hold me, be near me; please,’ I continue as I reach out to grasp her in my arms.
‘Cock-a-doodle-doo’
Fuck where did she go, WHERE DID SHE GO! My heart races and my throat chokes. I lay awake, it’s dark. My sweat grows cold and I reach to the end of the small and lonely bed for a blanket.
‘Cock-a-doodle-doo,’ the rooster crows again.
Quiet rooster, quiet! Not now you piece of shit, not now. She was right their, right their in front of me and you woke me. Fuck.
I fold the blanket around me, tighter, feeling its comfort as it holds me in the night. Where did you go, come back please.. Please come back. I need to go back to sleep, I’m coming, PLEASE WAIT FOR ME.
A gentle gust picked up from the east and through the small timber window beside my bed, I can just make out the shodow of some leaves, beneath the fading moon they dance and rustle to the calling of the wind. It’s almost morning, maybe that’s why the rooster calls, or is it that he is scared. Are you scared rooster, quiet now, quiet now, it’s time to sleep, don’t be scared. Just a few more hours rooster, please, just a few more hours.
‘Cock-a-doodle-doo.’
Fuck, shut the fuck up now! I warn you, I’ll cut your throat before dawn and boil you in the deepest pot. Quiet. Sleep.
‘Cock-a-doodle-doo,’ the rooster sounds again.
What’s the point, she was never really their, was she. The tears run down my face and drop to the pillow, more follow, and I squeeze tighter.
‘Why did you go, why, please tell me why.’
She shrugs her thin shoulders and I watch as the skin pulls tight over the hollow of her collarbone. Her lips are straight and her eyes, sad with unexplained emotion stare around the room.
‘Cock-a-doodle-doo.’
I lay awake in the small cluttered room, my head searching for answers. The rooster keeps calling to the wonder of the morning, but the sun takes an eternity to rise and I sit sleepless in my own sweat. I want to sleep, I’m scared to sleep. I know she will be their, just a figment of my own imagination with no more answers than if I was awake. Please leave. Just leave me alone, I’m tired.
I watch through the shutters as the silky grey of night gives way to the brilliant colours of spring, ripe reds, pinks and greens. Beautiful flowers give glory to those who seek there beauty, as small lifeless limbs sprout supple new shoots. Birds, collecting slaters and slugs, dash from branch to branch and wag there tails with glee as I watch with a fresh feeling in my heart.
‘Cock-a-doodle-doo,’ the rooster crows again.
That’s it; I’m killing that fucking thing!
Monday, October 19, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Midwest Depravity - Carnarvon Part 6
A few weeks have passed since that ordeal and the river. Of course, the indestructible aluminium hull has since been at the welders’ joint having a hole patched. Suppose it wasn’t all that indestructible after all. The leak however, appeared after a raging stomp out at the oyster farm. The Boss, well intoxicated, went on another demonstration with a few folks from town.
It is said, when in Carnarvon, one must be stupid drunk, period. ‘Once you have learnt this secret’, I imagine the boss preaching one morning as he tosses me a toasted cheese sandwich, ‘any shithole will seem like paradise’.
There was this time when, ‘Hold on’ I shout over The Vandals and that, what song was it again, that’s right, Long Hair Queer. So Shane braces himself across the backseat like a well armed star fish, the .22 magnum slung firmly across his chest. Zac however can see the corner, holding the shot gun through the window, he leans into the passenger door ready for what is about to happen.
The speedo’ needle finds the 100kmh mark, my knuckles go white and I tear at the handbrake like a tiger tears a throat. The car swings wildly across the gravel track, one instance; I shift down, release the brake and throttle the hell out of the pissy carburettor. The car keeps sliding as Zac lets off a round; the power pole on the far corner splinters as hundreds of pellets blister beneath the timbers skin. The front wheels spin through the dust, it takes hold and we’re through the corner. In the rear view I can see a magnificent dust cloud covering the intersection, we’re safe, and I didn’t even spill the beer.
(Authors note: Destroyed that car some months later in a late night sideways flight from the authorities. We didn’t spill any beer that time either, we had already drunk it).
Through the long lazy heat we drink beer, beer and more beer. When we party we drink vodka mixed with beer and roast oysters over an open fire. When we get drunk, we ‘wrangle’ cods with thick ropes, we shoot guns at bricks and drive fast and eat oysters. The desert sun shines in our eyes, our lips crack and we dance around the yard for the joy of the earth, until it’s late, then we fall in the grass and sleep.
And this other time, Zac was nestled against the bow; in his hand he clutches a 1.0m spear gun and in the other rests a Corona straight from the ice box. He said he was hungry, we should shoot a turtle and you know the next thing, that small outboard is labouring away, flat out, hell screamin’. The hull dancing across the chine, throwing to and fro with the rippling tide we pass through the labyrinth of lurking mangroves. The water’s always clear after the change of tide, we’re lucky we consulted the chart; it’s perfect turtle hunting conditions. So pissing down this river we get talking about the logistics, ‘how do you catch a turtle’, you know, ’you jump on it’, ‘Fuck that, I’m just going to shoot it’.
The fish was sweet the way fresh fish tastes and we ate it while a fat mud crab boils in the brine. Turned out Zac was full of shit, you can’t shoot a turtle from a boat unless you hit the head. After the first ten shots our skin grew tight, we threw in the towel so to speak and went out into the bay where the rusted wreck lay. Zac shot some fish and I climbed across the rusting remains, jumping into the cool salty sea when I was too hot and a fresh beer was in order.
So Mum that’s all for now, as you can see, I’m doing okay and keeping away from those ‘filthy whores’ you warned me about. You know, I really have been thinking about those lovely Christian girls you keep harping on about, if you don’t mind, could you please send one up with the next package, my balls are killing me.
It is said, when in Carnarvon, one must be stupid drunk, period. ‘Once you have learnt this secret’, I imagine the boss preaching one morning as he tosses me a toasted cheese sandwich, ‘any shithole will seem like paradise’.
There was this time when, ‘Hold on’ I shout over The Vandals and that, what song was it again, that’s right, Long Hair Queer. So Shane braces himself across the backseat like a well armed star fish, the .22 magnum slung firmly across his chest. Zac however can see the corner, holding the shot gun through the window, he leans into the passenger door ready for what is about to happen.
The speedo’ needle finds the 100kmh mark, my knuckles go white and I tear at the handbrake like a tiger tears a throat. The car swings wildly across the gravel track, one instance; I shift down, release the brake and throttle the hell out of the pissy carburettor. The car keeps sliding as Zac lets off a round; the power pole on the far corner splinters as hundreds of pellets blister beneath the timbers skin. The front wheels spin through the dust, it takes hold and we’re through the corner. In the rear view I can see a magnificent dust cloud covering the intersection, we’re safe, and I didn’t even spill the beer.
(Authors note: Destroyed that car some months later in a late night sideways flight from the authorities. We didn’t spill any beer that time either, we had already drunk it).
Through the long lazy heat we drink beer, beer and more beer. When we party we drink vodka mixed with beer and roast oysters over an open fire. When we get drunk, we ‘wrangle’ cods with thick ropes, we shoot guns at bricks and drive fast and eat oysters. The desert sun shines in our eyes, our lips crack and we dance around the yard for the joy of the earth, until it’s late, then we fall in the grass and sleep.
And this other time, Zac was nestled against the bow; in his hand he clutches a 1.0m spear gun and in the other rests a Corona straight from the ice box. He said he was hungry, we should shoot a turtle and you know the next thing, that small outboard is labouring away, flat out, hell screamin’. The hull dancing across the chine, throwing to and fro with the rippling tide we pass through the labyrinth of lurking mangroves. The water’s always clear after the change of tide, we’re lucky we consulted the chart; it’s perfect turtle hunting conditions. So pissing down this river we get talking about the logistics, ‘how do you catch a turtle’, you know, ’you jump on it’, ‘Fuck that, I’m just going to shoot it’.
The fish was sweet the way fresh fish tastes and we ate it while a fat mud crab boils in the brine. Turned out Zac was full of shit, you can’t shoot a turtle from a boat unless you hit the head. After the first ten shots our skin grew tight, we threw in the towel so to speak and went out into the bay where the rusted wreck lay. Zac shot some fish and I climbed across the rusting remains, jumping into the cool salty sea when I was too hot and a fresh beer was in order.
So Mum that’s all for now, as you can see, I’m doing okay and keeping away from those ‘filthy whores’ you warned me about. You know, I really have been thinking about those lovely Christian girls you keep harping on about, if you don’t mind, could you please send one up with the next package, my balls are killing me.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Punk Rock Breakfast - Wired To A Beat
Most girls I know are so lame
Red hot bods
They're all the same
Nothing in between the ears
Just lots of space
Six cans of beer to fuck
See you later
Thanks again
Maybe we can just be friends
All that space inside your head
Makes me want to go to bed and fuck
She lifts the cheap wine glass to her lips and gulps greedily; the outdoor setting is decorated with three empty bottles of Evan & Tate Pink Moscato, some Rosemount Chardonnay and various other Margaret River whites. A desperado at the end of the table explains that he should have got a carton of ‘em; just flown in from site; two weeks pay – time for a piss.
‘I told the guys,’ the platinum blonde, pint sized, beaver screeches, ‘I fucking warned them that if you were coming around, we should fucking hide all this piss. Bad shit always happens when we get on the piss. You remember that time you chased me down the beach, naked, I was only 15.’
‘But I didn’t fuck you that night,’ she continues. ‘I remember my mum telling me that I should hit that shit up, she was like, what the fuck, you should just fuck him.’
She tilts her head back in hysterics, trashy and dogged.
The love I have for her is real
$2.99 the six pack deal
See her with another guy
It makes me laugh
She thinks I cried
Girls in bars they make me sick
But I don't care if they suck my dick
Spend six bucks on dollar night
A prostitute for just one night to fuck
Lyrics by Guttermouth – Just a fuck
Red hot bods
They're all the same
Nothing in between the ears
Just lots of space
Six cans of beer to fuck
See you later
Thanks again
Maybe we can just be friends
All that space inside your head
Makes me want to go to bed and fuck
She lifts the cheap wine glass to her lips and gulps greedily; the outdoor setting is decorated with three empty bottles of Evan & Tate Pink Moscato, some Rosemount Chardonnay and various other Margaret River whites. A desperado at the end of the table explains that he should have got a carton of ‘em; just flown in from site; two weeks pay – time for a piss.
‘I told the guys,’ the platinum blonde, pint sized, beaver screeches, ‘I fucking warned them that if you were coming around, we should fucking hide all this piss. Bad shit always happens when we get on the piss. You remember that time you chased me down the beach, naked, I was only 15.’
‘But I didn’t fuck you that night,’ she continues. ‘I remember my mum telling me that I should hit that shit up, she was like, what the fuck, you should just fuck him.’
She tilts her head back in hysterics, trashy and dogged.
The love I have for her is real
$2.99 the six pack deal
See her with another guy
It makes me laugh
She thinks I cried
Girls in bars they make me sick
But I don't care if they suck my dick
Spend six bucks on dollar night
A prostitute for just one night to fuck
Lyrics by Guttermouth – Just a fuck
Friday, October 9, 2009
The Girl With A Tattoo Of A Gypsy
‘I can’t read palms’, she frowns as I draw my hand away, ‘anyway that’s your past, this is your future’.
She points to my opposing hand; suddenly I feel a burning pass over me. I hide my hand like a murderer hiding a weapon – did she see the darkness in those veins, did she sense that foul aura – if only I could get rid of my hand – no, not here I couldn’t, I best keep it behind me.
‘I read the cards’, she continues.
‘What, like at the blackjack table’.
She smiles and skips over to a small black bull-terrier leashed to a pillar, with whimpering dark round eyes, she knees down and rubs him gently behind his ear – she’s got no visible underwear, not even a G banger – so fit, round and tight, she must not be wearing anything –what would I find if I peeled back those thin black tights. Would it be bald and juicy, what would it taste like?
‘You coming?’ she calls from the staircase, then darts out of view.
The other two have already left and I rush to catch up. I should never have asked about that book she was reading, what was it again? Damn, I wish I had of read it, or at least remembered the author. She had me look like a fool talking about this natural hallucinogenic stuff.
‘I don’t smoke weed much, but when I was over in Cambodia; yeah we smoked heaps; tore the shit out of my throat; wasn’t very good stuff.’
‘Me neither,’ tom replies, ‘I can’t remember the last time I smoked.’
‘Same, I think I was eighteen when I smoked weed with my sister behind the tin shed back home, that was before I had Sam,’ Rach continues.
‘Which way are we going?’ the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy questions.
‘Oh, over here,’ I point to a raised garden bed and gate, ‘we’ll have to jump it, I don’t know the code.’
We hop the brick wall and drop into an empty car park. Taking Tom’s skate board I push off towards a curb on the far side. I shuffle my feet into position but the board slows and eventually stops. I can hear Tom laughing in the back ground and I turn to see them watching – maybe I’ve drunk too much for this.
‘How far is this spot,’ Tom moans as we pass through the hotel car park and onto the road.
‘Just across the park, a small track leads down to the water.’
It’s longer than I remember and we walk in an awkward drift. Tom talks about his inexperience’s some more, saying things like, ’I always get so stoned when I smoke – everything spins’, I want to agree with him but I say nothing and focus on the thick tuffs of grass beneath my feet.
‘I thought you said this was close by,’ Rach questions.
‘So did I, you can see it just over there,’ and I point to a pathway leading off into the bushes.
The concrete path navigates down a steep seaward cliff. On either side, tall banyan roots tower above us like walls of a cocoon. The air is dense and Tom sighs with relief as he welcomes the coolness on his face.
‘Nobody is ever down here,’ I start, ‘I used too come down after a shit day at work and just daze beneath the trees.’
‘Yeah, that would be pretty cool,’ Tom replies.
The tide is high and the shore is littered with coppery cream sand stones that are smoothed by the sea. Tall trees with coarse, dark brown bark and large sweeping branches flow out across the shore and above the gently lapping sea. Another couple has taken refuge under one of the giants’ branches, he sits busily concentrating on an easel, she knees beside him watching, her hands resting on the inside of his leg.
Trying not to disturb them we find a spot on the far side of the opening. The Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy sits beside a big bushy branch which shades the bright afternoon sun from her face. I rush to sit beside her – don’t want to look like I’m too keen though, remember not to be a cling on.
‘Here you go Rach, you can sit on this rock,’ I point to the rock beside the Girl with a tattoo of a gypsy; Rach eyes me as though I’m acting strange. I am acting strange I think; I’m drunk, drunk for all sorts of reasons and I’m feeling the red of a fool.
‘Look,’ I say, ‘there are crabs under these rocks.’
I take a rock from its place amongst the litter of leaves, coarse golden sand rushes in to the hole that is left behind. I scratch at the leaves around it, nothing – she’s got her tin out, it’s well worn and the print has faded.
‘I can’t roll,’ I say.
‘Neither dude,’ Tom follows.
‘It’s okay, guys,’ she relaxes the tin onto her lap, ‘I can roll.’
I watch for a bit as she thumbs through her print faded tin and produces some papers, careless and with ease she sets them together and folds in a crooked crease – Crabs, need to find some crabs.
I start searching through the rocks and the large brown leaves that cover the shore. Still I can’t spot any.
‘There are crabs here,’ I mumble again.
It’s not until I stop moving that I see them, in the clearing that I have made, the ground has come to life. Small shells, about the size of a penny, drag themselves through the golden sand leaving light trails as they go.
‘Here, here, look,’ and I pick up two and hold them in my palms for the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy.
The small crabs are scared at first and bundle themselves into the safety of the shell. I watch for a moment untill they pull themselves together, in a burst they come out of the shells and dash across my hands, I fumble trying not to drop them.
‘Look,’ I urge again.
She looks away from the half filled paper in her delicate fingers and smiles.
‘Can I see,’ Tom asks and as I lean in to show him, she goes back to fingering the grass within the paper.
‘Wow, they are pretty cool.’
‘Yeah, they are Crazy crabs,’ I reply to Tom.
I shift back and hold the small crabs out to the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy, ‘Would you like to hold it,’ I plea.
She looks up from the half spun, cone shaped joint – the crooked crease, now it makes sense.
‘Yeah, in a moment,’ she smiles.
‘Crazy crabs?’ Tom mutters.
‘Can I hold them,’ Rach asks.
Oh, yeah, sure,’ and I hand the smaller of the two too her.
‘Lets smoke this joint hey,’ the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy interrupts.
I drop the crab into the leaf litter below and squeeze in between Rach and the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy; Rach eventually moves across to the next rock and I nestle in beside the Girl. We smoke the joint quietly, well, apart from Tom who coughs like granddad used too, ever toke. I feel the weed take my body in a rush, from my head down until my whole body feels heavy, warm and comfortable. I rub my hands against my jeans, then my fingers against each other; I lick my gums and then my lips. It feels weird and the saliva in my mouth tastes good, rich like a spicy dish, earthy and enjoyable.
‘Crazy crabs,’ Tom repeats
‘Well they used to call them Crazy… Hermit crabs, they are Hermit crabs… they used too call them Crazy crabs.’ I mumble and watch the languid sea through the shade of the large green foliage. A bright lustre reflects from the ripple on the water, it burns my eyes but I can’t look away.
‘Can I hold one,’ the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy asks – shit, I’ve dropped it. I start looking around my feet for the penny sized crab, but it’s gone – there, just under the rock and I reach down and pick it up.
When I turn to hand her the crab she’s already holding one. It’s the one I gave to Rach earlier. She holds it in the delicate tips of her two forefingers, slightly above her head, she speaks in a smooth and gentle voice, ‘come, come out little guy, I won’t hurt you’.
Her lips are moving slowly and I watch with such intensity I see nothing but her tongue swirling through her mouth – what it would be to taste her, too kiss her soft and gentle, just the way she talks. I wonder, I wonder what is beneath that bandana wrapped around her perfect head, does she have cropped hair, cropped hair just like that girl, Rhian, yes, Rhian, she was such a beautiful girl – should I make a move, maybe later, yes maybe later.
‘Do you guys ever wonder,’ she, the Girl with a tattoo of a gypsy starts.
I’m staring. I look into her hands, there is no crab anymore, they are folded neatly between her legs, I scan the ground and see the small penny sized crab beside her feet, it lifts itself from the heavy shell on it’s back, tired, it starts towards the closest rock.
What did she just ask? I’ve completely missed it – do you guys ever wonder, do you guys ever wonder, do you guys ever wonder – I have to stop this.
‘Crazy crabs; the shops; to sell them,’ I blurt.
‘Ha-ha, too sell them,’ Rach laughs.
And then silence – what should I say, what should I say…
‘It’s so beautiful; trees; it’s so beautiful; sun… on the water; so beautiful.’
‘Yeah it is really nice isn’t it,’ the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy confirms in that calm and gentle voice.
Yes, this is beautiful.
We sat there for a long time, talking when we could, but more just sitting silently. I thought about a lot of things, foremost I thought about the things I had forgotten to think about all that day, all those things that are wholesome and real, that are important, that make me happy – I know what I need to do, I’m going, I’m going, going and I stood up relieved from the weight that carried me into this drunken stupor, only to drop as a huge rush bends me over like a new born calf.
‘Well we should get going,’ says the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy, ‘I have some things I need to do before tonight.’
She points to my opposing hand; suddenly I feel a burning pass over me. I hide my hand like a murderer hiding a weapon – did she see the darkness in those veins, did she sense that foul aura – if only I could get rid of my hand – no, not here I couldn’t, I best keep it behind me.
‘I read the cards’, she continues.
‘What, like at the blackjack table’.
She smiles and skips over to a small black bull-terrier leashed to a pillar, with whimpering dark round eyes, she knees down and rubs him gently behind his ear – she’s got no visible underwear, not even a G banger – so fit, round and tight, she must not be wearing anything –what would I find if I peeled back those thin black tights. Would it be bald and juicy, what would it taste like?
‘You coming?’ she calls from the staircase, then darts out of view.
The other two have already left and I rush to catch up. I should never have asked about that book she was reading, what was it again? Damn, I wish I had of read it, or at least remembered the author. She had me look like a fool talking about this natural hallucinogenic stuff.
‘I don’t smoke weed much, but when I was over in Cambodia; yeah we smoked heaps; tore the shit out of my throat; wasn’t very good stuff.’
‘Me neither,’ tom replies, ‘I can’t remember the last time I smoked.’
‘Same, I think I was eighteen when I smoked weed with my sister behind the tin shed back home, that was before I had Sam,’ Rach continues.
‘Which way are we going?’ the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy questions.
‘Oh, over here,’ I point to a raised garden bed and gate, ‘we’ll have to jump it, I don’t know the code.’
We hop the brick wall and drop into an empty car park. Taking Tom’s skate board I push off towards a curb on the far side. I shuffle my feet into position but the board slows and eventually stops. I can hear Tom laughing in the back ground and I turn to see them watching – maybe I’ve drunk too much for this.
‘How far is this spot,’ Tom moans as we pass through the hotel car park and onto the road.
‘Just across the park, a small track leads down to the water.’
It’s longer than I remember and we walk in an awkward drift. Tom talks about his inexperience’s some more, saying things like, ’I always get so stoned when I smoke – everything spins’, I want to agree with him but I say nothing and focus on the thick tuffs of grass beneath my feet.
‘I thought you said this was close by,’ Rach questions.
‘So did I, you can see it just over there,’ and I point to a pathway leading off into the bushes.
The concrete path navigates down a steep seaward cliff. On either side, tall banyan roots tower above us like walls of a cocoon. The air is dense and Tom sighs with relief as he welcomes the coolness on his face.
‘Nobody is ever down here,’ I start, ‘I used too come down after a shit day at work and just daze beneath the trees.’
‘Yeah, that would be pretty cool,’ Tom replies.
The tide is high and the shore is littered with coppery cream sand stones that are smoothed by the sea. Tall trees with coarse, dark brown bark and large sweeping branches flow out across the shore and above the gently lapping sea. Another couple has taken refuge under one of the giants’ branches, he sits busily concentrating on an easel, she knees beside him watching, her hands resting on the inside of his leg.
Trying not to disturb them we find a spot on the far side of the opening. The Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy sits beside a big bushy branch which shades the bright afternoon sun from her face. I rush to sit beside her – don’t want to look like I’m too keen though, remember not to be a cling on.
‘Here you go Rach, you can sit on this rock,’ I point to the rock beside the Girl with a tattoo of a gypsy; Rach eyes me as though I’m acting strange. I am acting strange I think; I’m drunk, drunk for all sorts of reasons and I’m feeling the red of a fool.
‘Look,’ I say, ‘there are crabs under these rocks.’
I take a rock from its place amongst the litter of leaves, coarse golden sand rushes in to the hole that is left behind. I scratch at the leaves around it, nothing – she’s got her tin out, it’s well worn and the print has faded.
‘I can’t roll,’ I say.
‘Neither dude,’ Tom follows.
‘It’s okay, guys,’ she relaxes the tin onto her lap, ‘I can roll.’
I watch for a bit as she thumbs through her print faded tin and produces some papers, careless and with ease she sets them together and folds in a crooked crease – Crabs, need to find some crabs.
I start searching through the rocks and the large brown leaves that cover the shore. Still I can’t spot any.
‘There are crabs here,’ I mumble again.
It’s not until I stop moving that I see them, in the clearing that I have made, the ground has come to life. Small shells, about the size of a penny, drag themselves through the golden sand leaving light trails as they go.
‘Here, here, look,’ and I pick up two and hold them in my palms for the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy.
The small crabs are scared at first and bundle themselves into the safety of the shell. I watch for a moment untill they pull themselves together, in a burst they come out of the shells and dash across my hands, I fumble trying not to drop them.
‘Look,’ I urge again.
She looks away from the half filled paper in her delicate fingers and smiles.
‘Can I see,’ Tom asks and as I lean in to show him, she goes back to fingering the grass within the paper.
‘Wow, they are pretty cool.’
‘Yeah, they are Crazy crabs,’ I reply to Tom.
I shift back and hold the small crabs out to the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy, ‘Would you like to hold it,’ I plea.
She looks up from the half spun, cone shaped joint – the crooked crease, now it makes sense.
‘Yeah, in a moment,’ she smiles.
‘Crazy crabs?’ Tom mutters.
‘Can I hold them,’ Rach asks.
Oh, yeah, sure,’ and I hand the smaller of the two too her.
‘Lets smoke this joint hey,’ the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy interrupts.
I drop the crab into the leaf litter below and squeeze in between Rach and the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy; Rach eventually moves across to the next rock and I nestle in beside the Girl. We smoke the joint quietly, well, apart from Tom who coughs like granddad used too, ever toke. I feel the weed take my body in a rush, from my head down until my whole body feels heavy, warm and comfortable. I rub my hands against my jeans, then my fingers against each other; I lick my gums and then my lips. It feels weird and the saliva in my mouth tastes good, rich like a spicy dish, earthy and enjoyable.
‘Crazy crabs,’ Tom repeats
‘Well they used to call them Crazy… Hermit crabs, they are Hermit crabs… they used too call them Crazy crabs.’ I mumble and watch the languid sea through the shade of the large green foliage. A bright lustre reflects from the ripple on the water, it burns my eyes but I can’t look away.
‘Can I hold one,’ the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy asks – shit, I’ve dropped it. I start looking around my feet for the penny sized crab, but it’s gone – there, just under the rock and I reach down and pick it up.
When I turn to hand her the crab she’s already holding one. It’s the one I gave to Rach earlier. She holds it in the delicate tips of her two forefingers, slightly above her head, she speaks in a smooth and gentle voice, ‘come, come out little guy, I won’t hurt you’.
Her lips are moving slowly and I watch with such intensity I see nothing but her tongue swirling through her mouth – what it would be to taste her, too kiss her soft and gentle, just the way she talks. I wonder, I wonder what is beneath that bandana wrapped around her perfect head, does she have cropped hair, cropped hair just like that girl, Rhian, yes, Rhian, she was such a beautiful girl – should I make a move, maybe later, yes maybe later.
‘Do you guys ever wonder,’ she, the Girl with a tattoo of a gypsy starts.
I’m staring. I look into her hands, there is no crab anymore, they are folded neatly between her legs, I scan the ground and see the small penny sized crab beside her feet, it lifts itself from the heavy shell on it’s back, tired, it starts towards the closest rock.
What did she just ask? I’ve completely missed it – do you guys ever wonder, do you guys ever wonder, do you guys ever wonder – I have to stop this.
‘Crazy crabs; the shops; to sell them,’ I blurt.
‘Ha-ha, too sell them,’ Rach laughs.
And then silence – what should I say, what should I say…
‘It’s so beautiful; trees; it’s so beautiful; sun… on the water; so beautiful.’
‘Yeah it is really nice isn’t it,’ the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy confirms in that calm and gentle voice.
Yes, this is beautiful.
We sat there for a long time, talking when we could, but more just sitting silently. I thought about a lot of things, foremost I thought about the things I had forgotten to think about all that day, all those things that are wholesome and real, that are important, that make me happy – I know what I need to do, I’m going, I’m going, going and I stood up relieved from the weight that carried me into this drunken stupor, only to drop as a huge rush bends me over like a new born calf.
‘Well we should get going,’ says the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy, ‘I have some things I need to do before tonight.’
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