Sunday

Have a Beer, in the garden,

with my mate. 

No shoes, toes in the dirt. 

And then a joint as we chat away. 

The sun goes fades. 

The day gets Cold. 

Then we head inside,

and close the door.

Central heating on 21. 

Toes in the Rug, 

as I sit on the Couch, 

patting the cat. 

My mate leaves.

The light fades. 

I’m home alone. 

Dinner on my lap.

The television makes the room blue,

black enamel in the shadows. 

The fire burns in the hearth. 

red with energy flaming away. 

The detectives’ eyes, look out from the screen

"Somebody else is murdered

in the street. Beaten to death,

so it would seem. What to do? 

Gather evidence, close the case.

Death is close, in the city tonight.

Just another Sunday coming to a close.

Sun Rise

I jogged early, before the sun came up. It is nice running in the dark, the world is quiet and contained, not so much going on.

I couldn't sleep, I was awake for no apparent reason. 

I jogged just in shorts, nothing else. The cold air was bracing on my skin, I knew I was alive with the way it felt. 

I'm warm as soon as I start running. It's sexy. The girls opening the markets gave me looks. 

The cold air was so crisp on my nipples, it made me hard. I didn't expect that. I could feel them with each step that I took. Solid. Bouncing up and down. It was disconcerting, to running, not to life, although it kind of turned me on.

Ha ha. The air was fresh and then the light was new. And then it was light, as the brightens came from above. The contrast kicks in. The world gets depth and width, not just the one dusky dimension any more.

The birth of the day, a nice time to be out in it. breath in lung bucketfuls of fresh air, feel what is real and alive. Feel what is important to the life we live. 

No bullshit at that time of the day, it hasn't had time to gather together and clump, blocking us in. It's freedom, the dawn. It is the ultimate possibility for you and me.

Sun rise.

Listen to my feet beat to my heart on the ground.

Winter Mornings

Between bleary eyes and sun rise.

I’m out on the footpath in my shorts. My legs are cold as I acclimatise, as I get ready to run. It is a tense moment, in anticipation of the pain to come, and the joy that brings.

My shorts feel snug around my arse and my thighs. I’m going for the sockless look, with short, short socks. Just runners, that’s how it looks.

I stretch a bit, then I start to run.

I feel slow and awkward to start off, but that soon drops away.

I soon get into rhythm, trying not to be to heavy footed.

Hasn't it been cold? My balls shrink away to nowhere when I go jogging in the mornings. The hairs on my legs bristle, as my bare skin gets use to the breeze, as the cold slaps my arse, and burns my throat. The cold air touches my lungs. My foggy head spins with the cold wind on my face. I'm all ankles and feet, until the steady rhythm comes, got to warm up, physically and mentally, and then the magic starts. 

The fragile beauty of the sunrise makes my heart beat faster. The curtain is lifted. Dark becomes light, so quickly.

Sublime.

then it is light and still, just the clup, clup, clup of my feet on the footpath and the heave, heave, heave, of my breath in my lungs.

My feet are light, my legs are like clockwork, or pistons, or something. The footpath is clear. I am floating above it. I am a glider sailing down the street.  I am Aladdin flying his magic carpet. My legs are like giant springs, perfectly sprung. The deeper I breath, the healthier I feel.

My steps echo under the shop awnings. They sound thap, thap, on the cross street out in the open. I sail around corner. I float over driveways. I slalom bins on the footpath, it must have been rubbish day.

The park opens up and swallows me at the bottom of the hill. The air transforms, the smell of mulch and grass pervades my nostrils. I am running under the trees. I am starting to warm up. My steps are even, my breathing calm, I am moving with ease, I feel good. I am glazed with sweat.

I pull off my shirt, the breeze is perfect. Just me against the entire world and I am winning. The park casually waves me through.

Back out onto the road. Running up the shopping strip. Two girls heading to work look back as I run past. They say something, not sure what, but I recognise the tone, it was hungry, what we like to hear. 

“You want a piece of this,” I say out loud. That makes me smile. That pushes me on. That’s why I’m doing it, don’t be fooled.

The shops are empty, the footpath cleared out just for me. That’s what I tell myself anyway.

There is a delivery guy delivering bread. The cleaners are just finishing up.

Then I am at my street and I turn for home. My throats burns, my legs shake, as I stretch at my gate.

Bleary Eyes

It's cold. Bloody hell it’s cold! Shit! Really fucking cold. Blow on your hands and rub your palms together cold. I feel the chill in my lungs as soon as I breath it in, like a chill on the inside of me. I can nearly feel it all the way down to my lungs. The air is grey, the sun hasn’t broken through as yet. The stillness of the half-light is breath taking enough in itself. Breath in! Gasp!

“It’s really cold,” I say.

“Brass monkey’s,” says handsome Rolly Gregson. 

Then he shakes his leg and there is a clank, clank, and two large testicles roll out of the bottom of his jeans leg.

Rolly stares at me with his handsome face.

“It’s really cold,” I say.

“Brass monkey’s,” says handsome Rolly Gregson.

And as soon as he says that, there is a chattering and a squealing in the trees as a gaggle of primates runs through the canopy.

“You don’t see that every day,” says Rolly.

“No,” I say.

“It’s really cold,” I say.

“Come over here and I’ll hold you to warm you up,” says handsome Rolly Gregson.

“I’m sorry, what did you just say?” I ask.

“Come over here and I’ll make you a hot drink to warm you up,” says handsome Rolly, stepping sideways to show me a fully equipped kitchen just behind him.

“It’s really cold,” I say.

“I’ve got a jacket in the back of my car, mate, I can get it for you,” says handsome Rolly Gregson.

“That would be great,” I say.

He points to his white Alfa Romeo GT Junior, parked a few car lengths down the street.

I rub my gloved hands together, as he heads to the car.

Rolly returns with the jacket.

“I don’t see you drive your Alfa Romeo GT Junior very often.”

“No, I don’t drive it nearly as much as I expected to,” says Rolly. He tosses the jacket to me, and the two of us head off on our walk.

“If I rubbed your nuts, do you think you’d feel warmer?” I ask.

“I’m not sure, but I’d understand,” says Rolly.

We both laugh.