The Martini Project

The power went out in my building a couple of days ago. And so a generator was installed outside my window. It hums a little sharper than a B, which is amusing when I can convince myself that it’s in tune with whatever music I am trying in vain to use to mask it.

It wriggles its way into my dreams - not the sound itself, but a cloying, nagging hatred for my subconscious narratives. Please, just let me dream in peace!

Maybe I will dream that, on the day I’ve had enough, I’ll rally my four friends with guns and balaclavas, and we’ll rob some old money family for all they’re worth. We’ll take from them what their ancestors took from the indigenous people through “slavery-like conditions”. Not that it’s ours either...

And we’ll sell their jewellery and their paintings on the black market and manage somehow to wipe the slate clean - appear in the city with two million dollars. And if anyone asks we’ll say it’s an inheritance. That’s not entirely false, is it? That’s what it was, and what it was going to be. We simply intervened.

And we’ll buy a two-bedroom apartment in Darlinghurst (that’s all we can afford) and I’ll put two bunk beds in one bedroom for my friends, and I as the mastermind get my own room.

And we’ll all go in

On a bottom shelf gin

Some olives, and vermouth

So stow the nip

And have a sip

Of drinks infused with youth

And looking out the north facing window, we will breathe in and smell not mould nor fresh paint. And we’ll play Apartment by Custard over the speakers. And we’ll hug and kiss and dance like fairies.

This is a dream, not a prophecy. This is a dream, not a prophecy. This is a dream, not a prophecy.

If events take place which might lead someone to suspect me and my four friends, let it be known that this poem is a work of fiction and should not be taken as evidence against me in any investigation. Nor should this be taken as reflective of my mindset or attitude towards the housing market to a degree that could ever motivate me to break the law.

Four statues stand, symbols. I look up at them in reverence. Four distinct colours, none distinct on its own, but distinct together. Their scale is unlike anything I have ever seen. This must be Olympus. I fall to my knees and sob. But one statue reaches down and tells me I belong amongst them. The rest nod their heads like mountains in concurrence. This is untrue. This is blasphemy. I claw and scratch at the stone hand which grasps me, bringing me slowly to their level. These statues are equidistant and their hues equidistant. There is truly no place for me. Nothing I could see with my eyes. I struggle harder and manage to escape. I throw myself off of this Æsir’s hand and he reacts - trying in vain to snatch me up. As he does so he underestimates his strength, splatting me against the back of his hand like a bug on a windscreen. He grimaces and wipes my remnants on his shirt.