The King and The Cross.

Ode to being in your late 20s in the ’90s

Were one becomes bored with the landscape

And decides to venture forth to foreign lands

A head full of concurring other people’s cultures

Knowing you could be like other Kiwi’s from the antipodes

Therefore, you jump into a tin can with wings

The excitement was almost too much to bear

Dumping your bags in the backpackers

Without even a proper look at the room

One rushes out into the night, for a stiff drink or two

You meet a chap standing by a corner

And ask him about a famous bar you have heard of, does he know where it is?

Due to your small Island culture, you ask him to come along

Whilst playing pool, you are neither in front of the eight ball nor even behind it

As you both realize that you both have a lot in common

He asks if you would like to partake in a taste of heroin

Your not-so-long-ago past pops up and says

“Oh yes please, that would be rather splendid”

One has immediately forgotten the four treatment centres it took to weave your way out of

How one of them you passed a girl in the hallway on the phone asking her Daddy to send in a helicopter to get her the hell out of there,

And when you asked her if you could hitch a ride she screamed the hallowed walls down

Three days later the glorious sea washes you up onto the grass behind the police station

In the Kings Cross

Where there is no King or Cross insight

Only a lot of other homeless Kiwi’s

Your commonality glues you together

Along with all the other cultures that lost the battle with the King and the Cross

One becomes simply another invisible person to all passes by

Therefore, you sit up and paint a face to hide a face

Unaware of who is looking back at you in the mirror

It was going to take a lot of cash to keep the beautiful ocean of heroin running through your veins

In the land of the long white cloud

One could strut about like a pink flamingo

Use your wit and charm to anchor in a John

Whereas off from the King and the Cross

Were the Pot has a Point

One has to stand in line and strike a pose

You are introduced by your chosen name

Waiting to get plucked from obscurity

There is no rock to sit on and sing your song to pull them in

Thankfully, more population means more clientele

But alas no William insight to Tell

Those who bear the cross

Would try to burden you with its weight

As you sink into the soft grass

Whilst the needle rests gently beside you

As it has woven a new tapestry

Down to your soul

Your bones walk to the exchange

Were a nurse gives you a shiny new kit with needles for your tapestry

One does not lift their head to look into their eyes

Because then you would see your broken soul reflected in theirs

You watch the King taking up the battle for the Cross

The Italian brigades are winning a lost fight

You jump the rails to Cabramatta

Were the Terracotta Army standing strong amidst the war

Your eyes linger on the ground

But this time, only as a sign of respect

As you place the powder by your heart

While you read the writing on the wall

Painted in stark colours

One needs to rest so you can swim again

You stay in the land of the Terracotta Army

In a house with no walls

The guns begin to frighten you

So the shelter posts you back to where you came from

Washing back up a completely different person

The landscape is moving from a water-colour to an oil painting

As the fabric of your tapestry does not need thread and needle anymore

The thimble has been buried

There is no more mystery about Love and War.

By Jazzy Bell October 2010.