Ode to the Night Train

As we stumble carefully through the Thai country-side we suddenly start to understand what it means when poets and parents and people who look down on us 

all swear that it's not about the destination

 but about the times that we have while getting there. 

Up until now such prose has been nothing more than melancholy cliche

but there's something in this warm oriental evening that turns our heads and bites at us as if to say 

'you will never quite make it, but that is beside the point'. 

As this freshly apparent truth starts to sink in we grow silent in the realisation that the utopia we yearn for is already here 

and that paradise is in the now 

and no matter how many years we live, nothing will ever be as good as what we are  living in this exact moment. 

The journey; 

the freshness of youth; 

the liberating freedom that is the search. 

Golden

Sometimes I feel golden.
I'm a glimmering speck floating through space and time. 
A tiny gold star in a far away but beautiful patch of the sky.

In these moments I am absolutely certain that nothing 
– not life nor death, not hunger or nakedness, 
not heartbreak nor all the misfortune in the world - can stop me. 

In these moments I do not merely feel strong or courageous,
 but I am all together certain that I am nothing short of invincible.

These moments usually come late in the day.
 As the sun prepares to clock out something in my veins begins to radiate
 and the sensation takes me over.

In the dead, grotesque, empty areas I rapidly come back to life. 

I feel as though the soon-to-be-sleeping sun sees me. 
And I have not a doubt that she understands how I feel. 
Taking pity on me she casts a spell upon my soul 
and she watches with pride as my eyes once again begin to sparkle 
and the hairs on the back of my neck start to dance 
in a frenzy of excitement.

All at once the sky explodes, my mind following in it’s nuclear path 
and now all I can think of is the fact that we are young and free 
and if God is for us then who in the world can possibly stop us.

I start to breathe deeper than I ever have before, 
gulping and gasping selfish and glutinous breaths. 
Visions of the night ahead flash through my young mind 
and at once I understand that for this night there is no map, 
no plan, no prescribed method. 

For this night there is only freedom 
and there is nothing in the world that could not or may not take place
 if we so will it.

As I watch the sun sinks deeper into the rich, warm earth. 
My heart races ever faster and my skin burns ever hotter.

As the great lady of the sky retires into darkness, my mind is further illuminated. 
It’s as if she’s decided to lend me her glow for the night 
 - a blessing far too great to ignore.

I hop into the car, start the engine and drive quietly into a great perhaps.

My friend, these are the golden days.

Yellow

Yellow ran through our hot blood

on the day that we shouted “piss off” and “get lost”

to school, and parents, and mowing the neighbour’s lawns

for fistfuls of loose change and cold glasses of orange raro.

Yellow flashed in our eyes

as we escaped towards the freedom of Manu Bay,

my fresh drivers license tucked safely into the glove box

and Fat Freddie’s Drop bursting from the tinny speakers

of Davie’s 1987 Toyota Corolla.

Yellow possessed us like a friendly demon

and took us far from home,

where the ocean stood down dusty pine tracks.

We came to rest under a pine tree by the sea and Davie said

 “it’s not that great” and I said

“neither is home”

and we both laughed our possessed laughs.

 Yellows’ shine beat down upon back and bone,

but somehow, the first burn of summer never came.

Yellow became a thing of recklessness without consequence,

a thing of carelessness without the aftermath.

It was not crimson or violent or inflamed or scalding,

It was golden and passive and lovely and glowing.

Yellow was warm sand on toes,

cold sand on sleeping bags.

It was the pages of the phonebook being torn by bold hands

with bright faces and dancing eyes.

It was a thing of moments of ecstasy without artificial stimulant

- because there was nothing artificial about yellow.

Yellow became the God of those who abandoned comfort

to doze like dogs down by the fire side.

It grew strongly in those whose eyes opened with the tides.

And somehow, we knew that those who lay safely tucked in the heat of their tight beds would never even catch a glimpse of yellow’s beauty

- and we pitied them. 

Image: concreteplayground.com.au