Sunday Morning in the Country

It was dark, when I awoke, when I opened one eye. I could hear the water bubbling in the creek, behind me some where. The room went off in the wrong direction. I opened my other eye. Cabinets, a stone fireplace, where my balcony doors ought to be. A straw ceiling? Ah, the country, as my brain switched on.

I'm in the bush and I'm wide awake.

Manny was coming up, but I didn't call him. I thought about him being here, wished I'd called him; I'd just start playing with his cock, it would be warm in my hand, it would start expanding, as soon as I took hold of it. He'd kind of grunt, as I'd start to rub it. He'd moan, like a puppy. Good morning, his croaky voice would say, as he pushed himself into my hand. I'd kiss him.

I so wanted to sleep for hours, sleep till noon. But no. I tossed and turned, but I knew I was awake for the day.

Crap! It was still dark outside.

I brewed really strong coffee and rolled a joint and sat on the top step in the garden, as sun came up. Ah, just beautiful; cool, fresh air, like all the central heating in the world has never done me any good, alive, in the world being reborn right before my eyes, like the city can only ever dream of, with it's bins being emptied, it's street lights turning yellow along deserted roads and it's clubbers holding each other up as they hunt for taxis'.

The wattles are a blaze of yellow through the gums, like a ring of yellow encircling me. Daffodils are smiling every where. Birds call, whistle, melodies melting like honey on the leaves. Echoing in the forest, drip, drip, drip. The sky is blue, not the colour of bile, as I see it from my 40th floor, office window. The red wattle looks like raspberries scattered amongst eucalyptus green. The swans glide across the unbroken, surface of the lake.

The shadows run from the foot of the trees, as the sun rises, brightly in my eyes, to the right. A brand, new ball of crystal, burning for the new day. I squint, as it breaks through the trees for the first time, but it's only a reflex, city living; it is warm on my face, gentle, lush. The feel of golden.

The world is on soft focus. The wind buzzes gently in my ears.

I feel the tongues of ex-lovers, as the marijuana messes with my mind. My eye lids droop. I need a piss. The joint dies. My coffee is finished.