Wrinkles and sun spots that look like liver spots riddle Les’ large hands. Clumsy fingers with splintering yellowed nails tear apart a slice of garlic bread, squeezing the crust and crushing the soft, butter-laden centre and drawing oils and fats onto his fingertips and down his palm. He tears apart the garlic bread and stirs the saucy, meaty remains of lasagne around his plate, collecting the little tomato sauce that is left. He tears apart the garlic bread. 

His hands glisten, deep crevices are levelled to an even surface by creeks of grease. He tears apart the garlic bread, he massages the fats and oils that have dripped down his palms into his hands, he takes a swig from a pint of Guinness, still in its bottle, and leaves smudged fingerprints over the green glass neck as he withdraws his fingers.

He dines with 7, all too full to take another bite of food on their near-empty plates, all watching Les eat out of the corner of their eyes. They chatter about holidays and plans and goals and how delightful the home-cooked lasagne was.

Fine art.

Beachside steel.

It’s been welded and moulded into the shapes of a disfigured skeletal character, a comical representation of human form, a functionless structure of disjointed bones. Fine art.

Useless nuts and bolts are firmly fastened against the smooth curves of the dull grey surfaces, protruding and shimmering like salt-crusted blemished on tired skin, collecting dust and dirt and pollution; perhaps for their own namesake, perhaps for the purpose of something greater than themselves.

The sea breeze blows, forcing the thick branches of low-sitting trees and overgrown shrubbery against the metallic marrow. The skeletal frame screams, a hollow and lifeless noise, as the branches try to break the skin of its perfectly rendered surface.

The breeze blows on. It rings through those very same bones the branches assault, and to the wind these bones sing a chord of disharmonious notes, a gentle wind-chime whistle that was made its nature by those hands who built them. A flute of spirits that rejects the well-known songs of the lapping waves and branches for its own selfish intent.

Fine art.

The glossy glow of growing grass, an oval amongst bricks and roads and suburbia, is the groundskeeper’s misfortune. The season has changed and with it the grass now sprouts new blades with an unbridled enthusiasm with which a lawn mower’s schedule simply can not compete.

The slim sprouts from grass seeds are an invitation. Invitation to the school children, the picnickers, the passers-by. Bikes charge bravely across the green surface with a soft crunch.

A young man sits tree-side, basking in the spotted light beneath baby leaves. A small collection of bags and belongings encircle him and mark his territory as removed from that of the ordinary park visitor; his shirt, a guitar case, a backpack. He might be handsome but his comfort deflects the eyes of observers for fear of intrusion, or offence, or the off chance that he may leap forward and ask for the precious dollar that was being saved to pay for parking.

Should one not divert their gaze to the dandelion weeds sprouting from between the cracks of the footpath on just the other side of the road, one might be blinded by the glare of the sun as it bounces from the face of a wristwatch. One might mistake it for the glare of lingering dew on glossy growing glass.

Like pink-stained snowdrops, little spots are scattered across mossy brick paving. They wander mindlessly, hovering over protrusions and textures and catches that might interrupt their dance. Little petals of Spring snow.

The branches are barren. Cherry blossoms fall and leave lonely black skeletons shaking gracelessly in the wind. A brief romance is brought to an and just as abruptly as it began.

The slow slick of pages turning rings sharp enough to slice the dancing dust particles, suspended mid-spin.

The hasty type of maddened fingers fuelled by caffeine, dancing across keyboards, fades into an irregular rhythm, a cymbal that rings little noticed.

The cautious tap of heavy water bottles atop slim wooden desktops carries only just enough to disturb one’s work state and remind them to check how many minutes have passed.

A small cough is choked.

Mechanical air pumps hum a monotonous tune of rushing air passing through filters of air conditioning units.

A song of laughter floats up the stairwell.

Rain falls heavily outside, but is silenced by thick roofs and insulation.

The screaming rattle of rock hard skateboard wheels on gravel echoes ceaselessly through the air, bouncing back and forth across empty roads. The lone midnight skaters’ slow and steady uphill journey awakens the trees, alarmed by sudden noise and prompted by the soft words whispered by the breeze. They shake their stiff leaf-clad arms and prepare to watch closely this night traveller.

Mindful. In case he should fall. They guard the young man from the limestone rocks and cliffs and drops unknown to those who pass; the dangers of the unseen and unlit terrain which resides just beyond the left curb of the road. Across from these peaceful guards, curtained windows of terrace houses crack ever so slightly and watch sleepily for other passers-by. One might have even seen a small twitch of anxious excitement. They may have been mistaken.

Then the rattle ceases. Quiet makes its heavy descent. The soft, slow rhythm of uphill footsteps ease tired eyes back to sleep and abdicates the responsibility of safety to the windows of terrace houses. The young man watches the tip of his skateboard swinging back and forth under his arm.

“Look at them, don’t they look like a movie poster or something?”

I hadn’t noticed.

The former warehouse windows framed three women standing street-side with cigarettes and half full glasses of deep burgundy wine, their hijab’s and shayla’s  loosened slightly, for they hadn’t considered the change in the night air when dressing earlier in the evening; now less cool than it was a week ago. The soft glow of dim lights and candles radiates through the panes of glass, exposing to onlookers the pools of rose upon their cheeks.

“Is it safe?” They had asked.

Is it safe? 

The restaurant clientele are good-natured, wine-drinking and morning-loving. They are non-intrusive, non-invasive and conduct their affairs in a politely private fashion, so that they may disappear to the ordinary passer-by in a sea of goings-on. 

Are the streets busy with people at this time of night?

There is a small nightclub a few doors down, a temporary pop-up that’s concealed from the street and attracts sporadic floods of excited 18-year-olds and even more excited 17-year-olds.

What kind of people are on the streets but for kids?

There’s the man who sleeps by the park and the hunchback who wanders by on occasion, pushing a grocery cart filled with bags of miscellaneous goods. There’s the young family who live around the corner, the woman who walks four Dalmatians exclusively at night and the fine-browed mothers from homes in wealthy suburbs in their rare venture out of the comfort of the wealthy suburbs closer by to them.

It is late. The streets are near empty.

Empty, but for these three ladies. They are rendered in the style of the Baroque artists in the lighting of the streets at night. Their features are cast into shapes by the shadows which fall upon them from above. Suspended splashes of red, green and blue fabric hallmark their figure, distinguish their form for the observer. A neon light across the other side of the street flickers momentarily. Its loud message, ‘Asian grocer’ is silenced and the shapes of three women melt into the shadows of the street behind them.

9.13pm

When sitting in the back courtyard at night, it is important to be quiet, he says. The chatter of six people might disturb the neighbours or add to the frustrated sleeplessness that living along the highway inevitably brings.

So the booming voices of five twenty year-old men sitting around an outdoor coffee table on mouldy sofa’s and plastic outdoor chairs become softened. Their well-practised stature, squared shoulders, puffed chests, becomes slackened under the cover of a dark night. There is no moon and no lamps, the nearest porch light lies 10 odd metres away and is filtered by a lattice of bricks, an outdated white feature piece that’s a few pieces short of a wall.

Everyone looks more closely at each other, everyone pays more mind to what is said and those words which would otherwise be lost to drowning by music are caught.

10.07 am

An old woman, 85 or so, sits on a plastic green lawn chair with her back to the sun. The slanted morning rays catches the outermost of her short white hairs, warms her back and shoulders and signals the days beginning. Amongst a yard of overgrown grass, white weeds, yellow weeds and budding roses she slouches into herself and into her lawn chair. Her green sweater, although landmarked by a rim of gold, is a camouflage that eases the distinction of her shape with those of her garden. She is still, calm, quiet, at peace and disturbed only slightly by the gentle breeze as it drifts from the river and up the suburban street.

Reaching down into the grass, she procures a small dish, a crucible for a slice of bread, takes a bite, dusts the crumbs from her fingers with a gentle swipe of each against the other, and replaces her plate amongst the overgrowth. Realising the warmth, she removes her dark green sweater. Slowly, a bright white t-shirt is revealed. Once again, she slouches into her plastic lawn chair.

It is a warm morning for August.

They’ve shaved their head.

It looks nicer now

“I like the change”

It feels better somehow

It’s darker on their skin

a halo of brown

against blue eyes

that softens harsh looks

on a baby face.

There’s something of excitement,

more livid, more vivid,

then when I saw you last.

It’s a busy time

Does time ever really move fast?

There’s something about your eyes.

Maybe it’s just the hair

or something about the warmth in the air

and the change of light

to summer’s golden glow,

although it’s only spring.

Let’s pretend

it’s summer instead.

The juxtaposition between the bright LED lights of the Transperth trains with the cool blues and greys of a late afternoon sheltering beneath a thick cloak of clouds is exhausting on the eyes and disruptive of time. As the train pummels through space, one can be easily thrust forward into the future hours yet to arrive; the movements of the slowing afternoon liveliness become lost to the blur of the sidelong movement of the train. It’s a mechanical sidewinder creeping through the suburbs and sending the world to sleep for lack of fluorescence. It is drawn to a halt due only to the need to rest.

But as the world beyond the glass panes of the snakes body emerges from blur, one can see no indication of sustained life. The realised shapes are lost beneath a colourless wash. In the attempts of contact between the desperately lonely twigs on depraved branches the haze of oncoming rain is framed. The suburbs are punctuated by a faux wall, marking the line between that which is silenced by patter and that which holds its breath.