Chirping
DANIEL ANTIVILO
Chirping
The worst part about summer is the sunburn.
The mere recollection leaves a stinging sensation, leaves
my skin weeping for aloe vera, retching from grainy sand.
Night arrives early, beanies and blankets are numerous,
work upon work piles on my desk, until it blocks out my lamp.
Driving home, I still find my stare caught on the horizon,
the sun melting like butter and spilling across the sky,
to the time where expectations dissolved and the pages were blank.
The days melted into one another, the sun stretching
its arms so we could swim for longer.
We likened ourselves to Sal and Dean,
as we wandered past sunbleached houses, barefoot on the road.
Footprints trailed us in the sand, disappearing the next day,
memories brushed away by the earth.
The ocean breeze drifted by, sirens luring us
to Poseidon’s Playground, as we dipped our toes in the water.
Days were spent scouring bookshelves, the aroma
of aged paper, rolls of cinema film and buttered popcorn.
The seaside town’s heritage stood proudly,
it hadn’t aged a day.
We turned over every stone,
stumbled upon every dead-end and cul de sac,
met the locals and used fake names.
In this town, we were just tourists,
dark ages with no history,
free from the future, the past,
free to watch the blood-red sunset,
hear the chirping cicadas and
echoes of laughter.
In the darkened corner, my journal lies on my desk,
untouched and unbothered, gathering dust and guilt.
The sink drips,
drips,
drips
It drives me mad, but I don’t dare turn the handle,
the silence that fills the house is only worse.
Nights are sleepless, but empty of action,
only empty stares and glances to the clock,
where an early morning and congested commute
await me once my eyes close.
With each day that passes, the more that slips from me.
The details were the first to fall. Days followed.
Snippets remained, aged pages torn
from a book, stained yellow and disjointed.
Yet seasons changed, and so have I,
for escape is no longer at the sea.
Day by day, the sunburn healed,
my journal was opened, the pages were filled.
The sunrise soared and the evening went,
the horizon shined peacefully.
The backdoor was closed, there was no urge to run,
just to take in the heat of the morning sun.
Nostalgia’s Trickery
They say it can take many forms,
revisiting a place you once knew.
Cheeseburgers and shakes,
Mario and Lego.
As quickly as you remembered, time is ripped apart,
taking you to a familiar place, a familiar time,
tainted by the passing of days, hours, seconds,
of dear friends now long gone, of a house
frozen in a snowglobe.
Heed my warning, for nostalgia plays dirty.
It preys on minds that long for better times,
and has no mercy.
Sugar-coated deception,
a supermarket deal too good to be true,
it’s a sale-pitch with a catch.
It’s water splashing in your dry shoes,
It’s water splashing in your dry shoes,
a sugar rush that leaves you to deal with the crash.
It’s the promise of fast food when there’s food at home,
the rug that gets pulled out from under you.
Deception of the mind leaves you high and dry,
longing for something you didn’t know you missed.
Beware its enchanting voice,
for it will lure you into its depths,
caress your cheek and
wipe your tears,
a longing for what once was.
Daniel Antivilo is a writer from Sydney with a passion for classical fiction and modern poetry. Studying Creative Writing at Macquarie University, Daniel hopes to create a voice for himself in the modern world. He can’t go a day without a book in his hands and headphones on his ears.
