Sunday, 28 August 2011

in a brief stretching moment there was murder

the faces from the tables stretch up and join with the dirt on the plastic ceiling and the chinese master wanders around hands behind his back surveying his dining fiefdom.  a lot of noise. bustle and two waitresses hugging each other in jest, and then out into the sunny street.  long poles of wood and wire tower up into the sky, black with grime and moss and lichen and char.  the wall takes a lot of paint to peel off and let you see it's underwear, little chips long gone only behind there is left a telltale puzzle, once its home.  busy bees up and down and trailing more behind, only on a sunday only on a weekend when the races are run and the drawers are opened and friends are called and meetings made.  cold clouds streak across, running there own den up there in the sky high high up above the ants and things, down here it's more warmer but just only a little.  tonight more of the kitchen japanese compadre styles and a little brittish and some country australian.  the music is live and grows up from the stage and into the wood worked into a building.  the streets are quiter outside this place and it's also a long time passed since the day, sun stayed relatively still we spun and called it a sunset.  the dark isn't really a thing it is merely an absense of the thing we call sun.

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