in a squiggly
hole

in a silly
wood

in a spock inventor
planet

in a spiffingly spotty
universe

there lived a
space alien

...his name was Bob
and he liked haloumi


...he liked observing
humans
serving haloumi
on a plate
with crackers
in their sooty restaurant

under the sparkly stars




...
one day he changed his name to Greg

Conversations linger in the air like water vapour,
As well looked-after manicured fingers sip multicoloured
cocktails out of silly straws,
and grip tightly on hourglass shaped glasses
lipped with sugar and lip-gloss.
Its 5:30 and the incongruous smells of barbecue
from balcony grills, and squid and
grilled haloumi and garlic from the Almond Bar behind me and
sweet gelatos and small cream cakes from the narrow shop called Messina
seem to brush every sense. The whole suburb speaks.
The walls whisper behind
me and the grey concrete slabs speak a language that I can't  interpret. Apathetic
hipsters gaze blankly at the street from the stairs of their apartment block.
What a pleasurable patchwork pastiche that pulsates through my senses.