Old Powderfinger sounding like Ruby Tuesday.
A Friday coming to the end of summer, and the start of the proper year. The start of trying.
Satire to round off the week. The new government not quite as funny as the last and the Democrats are just not funny at all any more.
Crikey is spot on regarding continued Liberal arrogance. They haven’t even registered that they’re in opposition now, no longer in the business of truth creation.
Sorry. Sorry. Scrawled on walls between shopfronts on King Street. A good, solid, hopeful day. In the end. In the beginning the old problem of facing the world, but by the end the hairs on my neck are standing up as I listen to news radio on the way home from the mall that almost burnt down.
Back to Friday. We stand in the Utzon Room and talk about what we would do next. Perhaps we’re already spoilt.
Two chefs on Sussex Street glimpsed from a taxi sit with their backs against a wall and their knees bent to their chests, smoking. I have pants like theirs and like to tuck them into orange tan boots. The silhouette makes me feel like an urban swashbuckler. I want to know where they’re from, these smoking chefs, but they rise and head around the corner into an alley as the lights change.
Ryan Adams sings of a woman who’d get him pretty loaded on gin. She’s got a busted tooth, a smile, cigarette ash in her drink, goes out on her own, takes him to France, or Spain to dance in a mansion on the top of a hill. She ashes on the carpet, sleeps on a boat, swims in the sea without clothes, winks at him, tells him that it will all be OK, maybe gives him a bath. I’ve found what I’ll do next.
A Friday coming to the end of summer, and the start of the proper year. The start of trying.
Satire to round off the week. The new government not quite as funny as the last and the Democrats are just not funny at all any more.
Crikey is spot on regarding continued Liberal arrogance. They haven’t even registered that they’re in opposition now, no longer in the business of truth creation.
Sorry. Sorry. Scrawled on walls between shopfronts on King Street. A good, solid, hopeful day. In the end. In the beginning the old problem of facing the world, but by the end the hairs on my neck are standing up as I listen to news radio on the way home from the mall that almost burnt down.
Back to Friday. We stand in the Utzon Room and talk about what we would do next. Perhaps we’re already spoilt.
Two chefs on Sussex Street glimpsed from a taxi sit with their backs against a wall and their knees bent to their chests, smoking. I have pants like theirs and like to tuck them into orange tan boots. The silhouette makes me feel like an urban swashbuckler. I want to know where they’re from, these smoking chefs, but they rise and head around the corner into an alley as the lights change.
Ryan Adams sings of a woman who’d get him pretty loaded on gin. She’s got a busted tooth, a smile, cigarette ash in her drink, goes out on her own, takes him to France, or Spain to dance in a mansion on the top of a hill. She ashes on the carpet, sleeps on a boat, swims in the sea without clothes, winks at him, tells him that it will all be OK, maybe gives him a bath. I’ve found what I’ll do next.
posted by noonie at 1:15 AM
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