walk with one shoe – 2
Dean James walk with one shoe


When all else evades the honour of giving, reason prevails. Hero on the arm, tortured by faith in compassion she defies traceable actions of kindness, exhumes what little faith she has left in the day to humour discontent. The night draws closer the yellow of distant lights echo down the alley as we prepare to play. A rush of smoke exhaled upstairs as the jagged banter cuts the unweary in the room. Stragglers loud defiant display the valour of kings and queens oblivious of mere mortals, while outside the distant lands cringe under the blood of the night sky, children run like savages devoid of human touch they scream in their minds eye forever tortured by fate. “Hello ladies and gentlemen we’re the band!” grinding first world flavours of careless thighs amusing the handcuffed businessman barfly.
Traces of newborn affairs filter through the night, the air suckling the tit of anticipation raises the expectation of loose favours. Its never a winning hand of consistency however and we all just go home.

Coffee and cigars flavour the room, it’s early morning the sky clearing to the sounds of comfortable beds along the street. I already miss the low rumble of the city, forever a murmur in every dark corner wear the beats all look for a warm place to hold up until morning light. I sleep. Tortured by my dreams I awake the eyes on the wall.
They leer at my yearning, cold the just deserving nothing, no explanation to whats to come. I filter my gaze from a spiders eyes, the nest of conflict on all sides anticipates the new dawn. Clouds, still in the moment permeate the smell of morning dew. Another day exists, closer to a new world order, where the haves decree normality to those who can’t see trees in the forest, who wade the endless tide of existence, enduring the swells of day to day conditioning. The meek shall inherit the earth, the earth insistent on prenuptial clauses of limited lifespans of the naked.

The bus ride seems quiet, a handful of pressed shirts scattered amongst perfumed smiles whisk away the morning commute. A crow flies eagerly awaiting my arrival onto the windswept streets, another day in paradise. Makeshift bedrooms clutter the sidewalk, leaves dance, waltz to the lurid waves of discontented shuffling feet. I light a cigar, the sun strikes my face with a warmth then dissipates as quickly as it appears. The wind clutches my spine I shiver quickly wrapping my coat around me smoke billows. I pull the keys from my pocket and head upstairs all quiet on the western front. The stains of comic relief on the floor, wet with a desire to lose sight of the profanities of well constructed news briefs tempered by the ruling elite. Suddenly the door slams downstairs the silence broken “how ya going mate,” “fancy a cuppa,,” last night drawn on his face, he seems weary but content his shirt half tucked in “lets go upstairs”. Pictures adorn the walls all with their own story to tell. The arched door opens to the sickly smell of last nights delivery bins full, a cars horn drowns my eyes torment “good night last night” he says in passing “didn’t get out of here ‘till 4 this morning”, “oh yeah, regular crowd of misfits?” I say swallowing a small amount of vomit, “The moon and party rocked up after the shows then all these amusing types with their pre written one liners filled the room gagging on self importance came in defying all logic of what amusing entails. The moon in waning left bemused by all the left wing bin chickens while party cornered the weakest of the heard in an attempt to sway judgement. We head out for food, Florentino’s sidewalk conversations of the night before lost to the wind, customers peer out behind glass fortresses, waiters half smile, trams swallow shadows all too willing.

Back at the bar it’s a quarter to 7, its always a quarter to 7 here, it’s only when you leave that time changes. Murf rolls in, terry towelling hat adorns fine hair, a sly grin pino appears on the table “so whats with the shirt, a bit gay,” any excuse to anchor reality we all laugh not that there is anything wrong with that. Plumes of smoke inhaled, the weekend is near when all the suited barlies enter a whirlwind romance based on the affluent mixture of alcohol and cheap promises, guarded crossed legs slowly open like hibiscus on a sunny day. Scholarly bartenders quietly spoken arrive for the nights swarray. The room fills with sweaty desire, young turks work the room as the less beautiful follow the swarm, queen bee flutters her wings surrounded by her entourage the black swan hangs back ready to pounce knife ready and eager to plunge into the queen. Dapper dressed shoe salesman scotch in hand, hangs his bag and coat well worn hellos and banter quaffed hair he sits. Left wing high heels with husband in tow, a well mannered man of quiet strengths shakes my hand. Frank holds court bellowing laughter resonating self assured, greeting the ladder climbers of the night they grind and sway together animated puppetry, pinstriped pants green and white float on the dance floor with regimented grace and purpose. Its still a quarter to 7.

Dean James

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