KIRK LAFFERTY

A large cardboard refrigerator box opened out from under her, for comfort, of sorts, for the collection of change from those who passed her by, who kept on walking. Across the road a café opened, the smell of shower gel and hairspray fresh on the customers who walked in and out anonymous. Cars sped by, their drivers trying not to spill their paper cup lattes, checking their Facebook, picking the coagulated sleep crustaceans from their eyes, trying to make that light, always red, always red, why are the lights always red when you have to be somewhere you think is important?  She tips over, a mass of dirty clothes now hiding a body which is also worn, also spent. She cries out, a  breath carrying silent words wheezed from lungs tarred from rollies, fag ends discarded by others, her last luxuries, from a life without. No words, just a breath gently escaping as her body turns off, at ease, at last. No-one hears all ears are turned else ware. The lights turn green and Grey Lyn

Photo , The key , Mexico 2008 My Writing Tutor told me  never write about the mundane, cups of tea, or going to the bathroom or the things in life that really  do not have too much meaning, I took that as a challenge  Here is Cuppa Cuppa       ‘Come down for a cuppa', she said, as if nothing else mattered. Had she forgotten all that had gone before? Of course she had, she was old. It was easier for her to forget than to remember what it was she said.         That day she called me by my brother's name, sitting me down scone and cream, thinking I was he, reciting all the crimes, I as me, had committed, some so bizarre that it was hard to believe she believed they were true. It was impossible to stop myself from shaking. My hand faltered as my mind tried to leave the room.           I watched as crumbs dropped from the side of my now tilted saucer, the sane times disappearing into nothing, Christmas cheer, and birthday celebrations from a time when

When the fog lifts I will get my life in order Make my bed Clean my room Shift those old shoes that smell all the time     When the dog barks I will come to attention Look both ways and decide on a direction to run Try to remember what it is that I am running from When I realise That staying right here is easier Easier than looking in the mirror Facing the world, being angry at the paper My family, my boss, the landlord who keeps asking My girlfriend who doesn’t ask anymore The news on the TV, all that killing All that fighting, all that hunger I am mad, I am angry When the fog lifts I am going to buy myself a gun And shoot that fucken dog. When the dawn breaks We should all stop lying to ourselves That everything is going to be all right.

After watching a masterchef episode I thought I would play with egg white rafting to get a really clear oxtail soup. This was the result I could have thinned it down a bit for transparency but sometimes the photo has to suffer when you are trying to be honest to the dish . Many oxen died in the creation of this dish .  Notting Hill Kitchen Parnell Auckland