Encrusted within the leatherback lining, and three beers deep. Six stories up, yet our smoke spirals higher. Encased in an unknown territory led by my best mate. Dazed by the cream chipped railing and rhythmic execution of bugs - reality seems to be spilling away. At the tail end of an uncle-nephew trade which I couldn't be closer too - just standing by, distant.

For a moment struck me, as hot as the smoke filling my lungs. ******* me into a period of long shallow forgot. A lost packet of socket-wrenches. Still cocooned in its glistening plastic, resting by the foot of the old man's lounge. Mass-produced, dirt cheap, the same set I have at home. A birthday gift from my father in-law, Temu special, a man's gift. My lady and I used these to hang Libby's artwork, Irene's too.

It couldn't look more out of place. I almost lost it under the peeling paint, smell of ****, and house music playing below. With a new light, I toked another, this time with a new thought behind my eyes. Those quiet Sunday's in Redhill - I laughed, maybe I wasn't as lost as I thought.

To be a better man is to change even when you don't want to.
To pick up broken glass with your naked hands, glueing each shard back together, accepting karmatic slices to your flesh.
Or perhaps you lay them to recycle, half-hoping to reconnect a later day, where you'll both ascend to something more than your current selves.
Though you wrap them in plastic, to be tossed into land fill, accepting your time stain like that'll make you a unique being.
"Oh, he's got character."
Gulped blue pill with plastic chaser, sláinte.
Oh, how wrong you chose

My old fat dog sleeping on the blue wood laced porch, his face Illuminated by the half lit moon and his ears dance away the mosquitos hungry for a midnight meal.
Alone, in the end of his tether, probably dreaming bout his youth. His paddling paws and twitchy nose, sow a grin on my withered face, he too reminds himself of earlier days.
Feed the cat, talk to him in a different tongue, ignorant of his clear lack of English. It doesn't really bother me, it's nice to say whatever I want for a change.
Still haven't sheeted the doona, or put away my washing. I'll leave that for a version of me feeling especially frustrated at the state of my messy room, usually accompanying BB singing the blues.
Exhaust's screaming down road begins my nightly routine, a lullaby of fossil fuels sing me to sleep, where I'm off menu for the high pitched invaders, spasms in my fingers and toes, clinging to the shredded wallpaper of the past.

The more I'm alone in evening, filling that pit in my heart.
It makes a lot of sense I sit by smudged glass.
Watching the passerbys, and the winter birds fly
Hoping for something, that'll conjure alittle laugh.

Perhaps if I stood outside and maybe bathe in the cold
Said g'day to my old old neighbours, and try to grab ahold
Of myself, and my fuzzy mind, instead of just complaining.
But for now, I'll drug myself, watchin' Bob Ross a' painting

My days waste away as I drown myself in aged grapes.
Just to feel something warm, it's been quite cold as of late.
Avoid all my, friends they probably don't wanna see my eyes wet
Three whole bottles later and plenty hand rolled cigarettes
It's just my ****** luck, the white dust starts a' raining.
I guess I'll calm my shakes watch another Bob Ross painting.

Perhaps my mind like a mountain top, needs a new blanket of snow.
Covering the old habits, allow my mind room to grow.
To explore a new path, see through a rose lens
Cry out all my old tears until Bob Ross ends