Whisky Warm September…

Yesterday had the loveliest buzz about it.
The first day of spring,
I didn’t sneeze all day.

I wrote poems furiously in my notebook at work.

One about birds.

Or rather, the exodus of birds I witnessed spew out of every tree in sunny Darlinghurst as some rather ominous– and very loud– charter pilots flew low over the city, causing people to abandon lattes and haircuts to rush outside and visor their eyes with their hands, looking up in to the sun–

It was loud at work too.

I sat and smoked a cigarette by the recycling tip in the smokers allocated quarters. The guy that does the bins introduced himself and apologised for all the banging and crashing.

“It’s such a beautiful day…”

And he agreed.

“What’s with the fucking planes?”

The day sped by and I filled an entire A4 page of my journal with haiku.

Mainly about the weather.

I walked home with my jacket open. Overheating under the leather.

I passed a little bar by my friends place and shared a knowing little glance with Daniel Johns, whom, may I never tire of being so pathetically drawn to.

I sleep soundly and wake early.

I dance like a warrior pixie in the kitchen.

Till it’s time to do it all over again. All of it.


One Response to “Whisky Warm September…”

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