We meet up by the fountain, nudity a part of the downtown core, a naked, green copper family in the middle of Saint George's Square. The punx are around, hackey sack rebounding off of Doc Martens and Chuck Taylors, guitar cases open with a smattering of change inside. Mohawks, dreadlocks, and pet rats on shoulders. Guitars, hackey sacks, and half drunk forties of Old English.
We're walking along the tracks in the late afternoon, cicadas humming over the traffic passing us on Edinburgh and Yorkshire. I've got a handful of lilies and snapdragons, escaped from downtown backyards and growing among the weeds and trash of the tracks, pansies pressed between the pages of a heavy leather journal, sachets of lavender flowers, leaves of lemon balm. We can see downtown from here, the trees meeting in a canopy over our heads, the roofs of buildings visible at the end of a tunnel. City Hall, the market, in dying light. Train whistles echo from down by the lumber yard, drawing closer, so we move over to the disused side of the tracks, and I bow with lilies in my hand to a passing freight train. The conductor blows the whistle at us, smiling though, and we clasp hands and carry on. They're building a new in building at the lumber yard; we sit on the concrete ramp facing the tracks, weeds and grass growing up through the cracks. After a good shag in the building, no trashier than we ever are, we move back toward the downtown core, dusk. Short skirt, ripped up tights, Doc Martens and an over sized wife beater. Trash. We both smell like adolescent boys and Old Spice deodorant, sweat, dust, and musky plant smells.
Sitting by the river, it's dark now, we watch bats flying low and catching bugs. There's something in the water, a drowning bat, that the others are going cannibalistic over. It's like a first date. I have nothing to say, and he seems like a stranger to me. Accusations of trying to be a filthy traveler punk arise at my thoughts of heading to Halifax and P.E.I post birthday. Yeah... because ya know, I've spent my entire life trying to belong to a subculture... not. Just because I'm not doesn't mean I can't travel like one.
Bag full of pig iron and driftwood, a vase full of lilies, and snapdragons wilting, falling out of my ponytail. Why can't every day be like this?
We're walking along the tracks in the late afternoon, cicadas humming over the traffic passing us on Edinburgh and Yorkshire. I've got a handful of lilies and snapdragons, escaped from downtown backyards and growing among the weeds and trash of the tracks, pansies pressed between the pages of a heavy leather journal, sachets of lavender flowers, leaves of lemon balm. We can see downtown from here, the trees meeting in a canopy over our heads, the roofs of buildings visible at the end of a tunnel. City Hall, the market, in dying light. Train whistles echo from down by the lumber yard, drawing closer, so we move over to the disused side of the tracks, and I bow with lilies in my hand to a passing freight train. The conductor blows the whistle at us, smiling though, and we clasp hands and carry on. They're building a new in building at the lumber yard; we sit on the concrete ramp facing the tracks, weeds and grass growing up through the cracks. After a good shag in the building, no trashier than we ever are, we move back toward the downtown core, dusk. Short skirt, ripped up tights, Doc Martens and an over sized wife beater. Trash. We both smell like adolescent boys and Old Spice deodorant, sweat, dust, and musky plant smells.
Sitting by the river, it's dark now, we watch bats flying low and catching bugs. There's something in the water, a drowning bat, that the others are going cannibalistic over. It's like a first date. I have nothing to say, and he seems like a stranger to me. Accusations of trying to be a filthy traveler punk arise at my thoughts of heading to Halifax and P.E.I post birthday. Yeah... because ya know, I've spent my entire life trying to belong to a subculture... not. Just because I'm not doesn't mean I can't travel like one.
Bag full of pig iron and driftwood, a vase full of lilies, and snapdragons wilting, falling out of my ponytail. Why can't every day be like this?
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