Young Writers Society

i was reading oscar wilde on the bus.
i got off at the station amidst conventional stares of
sunscreen, water bottles and ponytails.
i didn't care.
i opened oscar wilde on the train to roseville,
committing fare evasion ("it's a crime").
sir, why the hell would i care when i work
late into the night (i love my work, but that's
not the point) and i don't want to waste
my cash. tell me you work all bloody day
and why shouldn't you get paid.
sir, it's every man for himself.

i met my best friend (blonde ponytail,
top button undone, multicoloured folder in arms)
and we chose a nice-sounding
station from the train route.
you know, a feeling of safety wrapped
itself around me as we sat together
on the rhythmic train with its
wooden, clacking melody.
i don't care what they say;
public transport is therepeutic and
the topic of conversation being inane just
soothes my nerves and calms my angst.

we walked under the red, scarring sun,
along streets we did not know,
laughing at breezy memories.
we saw kids playing baseball,
mansions iced with ivory fences,
gleaming bmws sliding along the streets.
all amidst bush.
it was so damn juxtaposed.
we sat on damp grass, striped with shade and sun
and it was cupcakes, lipgloss and faux sunburn.
we caught the eleven thirty train out of there.

that afternoon i was sitting in gordon library,
reading oscar wilde and having the
time and quietness to think for a change.
i had strayed from the mascaraed commotion
of squeals and gossip and drinking thickshakes through straws.
as i walked home i took a detour and bought a
bounty bar from the lady at the supermarket,
who had chunky earrings and short, burgundy hair.
i strolled home, misplaced from my usual
time frame; i was among young mothers
and small children and the sun shone hot.
when i got home i took off my shirt it was so sweltering.

sunlight reeled in through my open curtains
and music stomped on my bedroom floor.
remember you, analysing my taste in bands?
while we stood amongst hydrochloric acid
and sodium chloride and other sloshes
of meaningless letters which we
shook together monotonously.
it's so dangerous,
having the house to myself, the walls echoing with my music,
the sun scorching the glass of my bedroom window.
i have too much time for memories and that's what
plunges me into a fit of navy chemicals.
written: (finished) Wednesday 27th October 2004, 7:14pm.