Forth day sober. Low pressure, narrow footpaths, hours at work are ticking away slower than usual. Office bash, attendance almost compulsory, quick stroll through a park right into a cage of four walls. Guitar, demos, mail, litres of sugar water and irrefutable desire for a cigarette. Can't be. Joyous news of tax cuts for the next financial year on a telly. Vote, bitch, we feed ya.
Fabulous!
A street. Young night pulse decorated by hammered seventeen-year-old chicks forgotten in hypnotising centre of crazed warhols and primitive hopefuls after a weekend. All good, movie clubs crowded by semi-intellectual jerks, midnight bookstores hiding young couples in love, darksome fellows on stairs passing a pipe around, guess Charlie Parker's one of them.
Pubs are hives of tireless night bees.
Blackcurrant juice instead of a fix. Thirst still hurts.
2 comments:
I bet you wrote this one first, as I prefer it to the Slovak version.
They were written concurrently, side by side as far as I recall.
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