Guess when I wrote this…
Friday night walk
Its been a while since I had a mad un’
And I need one
A wonderful night
splayed over three days.
In an array of new faces
I walk past the place I’d set out for
Catch a glimpse
Pop in a shop
Buy a can, Rambla de Raval.
Drink my beer
smoke a fag
Not necessarily in that order
Bubbling background noise
Of combustion engines and voices
Late evening strollers and beer peddlers
The click and ping of my biro
I plunge its mechanism,
with my two front teeth.
I enjoy the sensation.
I do it again.
And once more.
Can’s getting lighter, where next?
Straight roads that somehow wind,
Not like the planned grid
To our north.
Often I’m sure I know where I’m going
up to the last moment.
Another estrella damm.
Park my arse on the edge of the fountain
Careful not to day dream
and fall in.
I’m out of papers.
At least I’ll enjoy the next one more, when I find some.
Drooping stetson next to me, sodden leopardskin hat band
A punk kid picks it up, give it a tragic look
Drops it, walks off.
Swap the street tins, for a bar.
Beer and a chaser, 2 euro a pop.
Hot red interior.
90s nostalgia blares.
I like it in here.
Two british lads, west mids accent.
Or maybe southwest.
Tequila shot contest.
One of them’s definitely lost
Eyes on the ceiling
Guts ready to spill on the floor.
Make for the door.
That nicotine itch still needs scratching.
I still need summat to put it in.
Stop someone in the street, wad of papers.
I thank him graciously.
Roll it backwards, make a mess.
West mids/southwest lad,
(the one who didn’t vomit)
coked off his tits.
Yankees cap pulled tight on his head
Neck veins bulging, yapping to the nines
Unlike his pal – his night seems to be going fine.
Onwards and sideways.
Still looking for the right hideaway
somewhere I can fix myself for the duration.
‘policia, policia!’ sleeve the can
I sit astride two posts, one for each cheek.
So I’m sitting comfortably between them.
Woman asks if she can buy some weed
I apologise and smile
‘lo siento, no tengo’
Bloke approaches, asks for a light.
I oblige, we strike up a chat.
And plod back to Reial
‘dos cerveza por favor’
Crack-hiss, ‘what you here for?’
‘I like it, but its not Copenhagen’
He tells me about Cristiania
My knowledge is limited
So I’m interested
‘you like techno?’ ‘Yes’
Next stop, rotund kicks
stuttering clicks, pots and pans clatter.
Not been to this place before, but I’ve heard of it.
Namesake of a small keyboard.
And its the right size inside.
You can walk and breathe
But the dancefloor throbs
and pisses sweat.
The nights meandering pace
somewhere along the way.
Were you sat on the remote?
I’m fucking starving.