When o when shall I be kissed?! I must be patient, lie on my back in bed, hands clutching a bouquet of flowers to my chest, and remain incredibly still for the rest of the year. Wait for my prince/ss charming to wake me with a kiss.
Growing up in a supermarket is strange. Many rites of passage are faced within those brick walls and dimly-lit interior – love, death, a sweet sixteen, rejection, abuse, somehow finding yourself in the mix of all that.
I was dangling outside your window when you found me, fingers digging into the brick for dear life.
Lou’s blue lace underwear have been hanging on the line since Friday. It’s rained twice since then and the soaked panties look sad and heavy, the one lonely article of clothing abandoned outside.
Did I look at you, catch your eye, and did we blush and quickly glance away, shy and sweet and only sixteen?
My car stalled the first few times he started it up. Underneath the sound of the revving engine, he muttered, “Fucking shit thing”. I tried not to take it personally.
If this is a quest for truth then is Cold Chisel really the right soundtrack for it? Is there something more appropriate to listen to when stepping into libraries and archives or will my ears be forever ringing with the sound of a harmonica and Jimmy’s cigarette-stained vocal chords?