Original contemporary art prints.

The Journey and The Way

The Journey and The Way
January 25, 2003 facter

this is a versical-narrative about a trip down to Margaret river with Alec and co ..

On the evening, we drove
South, towards the
triangle-about,
lost friends found in the
dead of night, and a
clear through
bottle of Kirov
in hand,
and as the cards scatter
in the wind all about,
We slumber on air, and
the kangaroo’s
deposit their morning
presents
upon the lawn

“What
shall we have
chaps?”, spoken
minutes after awakening,
the blissful blue
hanging meters
away, beckoning to be trounced
“There’s only four
bits of bacon”
he remark’s,
playing at Chef
in front of the salt
and pepper shakers,

Listening to air
Vibrant wakes of
pooled treble in
a morning bowl

“Its freezing cold, and the
water is so clean, you
can ……. you can …..
taste the clean-ness”

and on the back of
neck, rays
beat down,
etching lines into the
english skin –

Lets see whats on
offer, after the pliers
have melted the
butter,
I move towards
the juice vender,

Sitting beneath
the verandah
sipping apple
crushed, split, juiced
and caressed –

And the discussion turns to
plane crashes in
Mecca,
and the alcoholic
beverages that
allow the journey to
flow smoothly
pleasantly.
unconsciously
before
The booming box
lets the little man,
dribble king of
cute sway whilst
in haphazard way
adjust the volume
for the grooves to
penetrate his sunscreen
doused body –

and we jump back to
a trek upon the hill,
mobiles in hand to
gain reception,
carpeted milk above
and
blazing, penetrating
sun winking out towards
us –

as we clamber
upon the rocks,

his shorts pockets chock
full of snails,

in vinegar and boiling water
for a minor feast
of winkled nose
delight?

perhaps,
but the idea is there –

Before jumping within the
cool blue, tasting the salt
on my lips and washing
sand down,
and the game of
Honey and bile as
the deflated ball
is chased, riven
and ended.

We splash,
relaxed via the
cancer beating
yellow orb,
white
encased
with
spread
sunscreen.

Trundled into the back
of an excel,
the beverage spot
is passed and
with minor hesitation
we enter,
and others are found,
acquaintances of the Company,
other
revelers
in a weekend split decision
as ourselves,
and under the block,
the glass recepticles of
amber are packed like
factory set joy,

and the afternoon
wears on with a
tired but interested
pull on liquid.

I sleep, and a car breaks
the restful sessions as
the sun releases the day –

“the biggest feed,
bloated we are”

for we had taken
a slight sojourn to
an eating place,
to stack
our stomachs with
something to unshrivel
the organ,
passing
out on the table,
the need for
movement
overcomes, and we
walk,
ploddingly into the
night, towards
the camp.

The is a high level,
and a low level,
upon the nicotine
patch, cut
and quartered –

When I am told I forgot
about the brown onion

I didn’t, so
there it is
in words –

We lay smashed from
a herbal remedy,
giggled up and
walking to and fro
from the dunny,
to avoid the
killer kanga’s –

crapping on
about sexual
relations and undeterred mores
(insightful stories)
another days sun dawns
and time stretches
(or so it feels)

compressing a simple
Weekend passing
into a more weekly sensation –

Good onya –

We were playing
the game last eve,
of objects and
adjectives

“I’m not drinking anymore
im gunna be a tea-towel-toller,
good-onion, a packet-in
we should
tennis-ball cigarette about it,
and she was a
bit pram-iscuous –

it was funny,
you had to
be there.

And after the shower, dredged out
and flopping about like
landed fish in the
sun,

Someone realises that the
key has disappeared,
the auto has no go and the
search for it begins

And cannot be found.

Bottle you do about it
tomorrow?

We also begin the lookage
for more sunscreen,
and we wish for
more sleep,

Feeling like micro-waved vegetables
in a sauté of juices,
alcoholic of
course,

Swims are taken, and we
cruise the dunes with a
board of sand, getting in
a last moment of burnt foot
paradise bliss,

body surfing on the
moment of breeching
gratitude,

A locksmith, bore
down the barrel,
lumping mechanised
knowledge with
sense removes
the lockage device
so they may
travel.

Filling the auto with
juice to go, the helix
resting within the shell,
the understanding Company
shows concern at emotional moments –

and a lunch of bread rolls
and peaches, goes down nicely
to boot,

So the journey back begins,
a tired affair,
in which we
attempt to pull pieces
of our mind
back from the brink.

Stoppage by the river,
glancing down the line,
messed and fussed to
single pieces,
hoping to hold within
our grasp,
a single piece of
time,

And the finality of the moment,
releases itself within,
and we know
that the

Company’s journey
is over,
and a new sojourn into
the exploration
of our singularity
will surely begin …