‘I miss music the most. Real music. Synth. Bass. Heavy bass. Trance. Keys. Sub whoofers. Ecstasy. I miss ecstasy. Goose-bumps during work that day. Half a pill to get you ready. Meticulously crafted bombs, timed to bring you up as your heel hits the dancefloor and the track melts, entering your consciousness by osmosis. Baggies to dab from, keep you level, keep you on an even keel, keep you purgatoried between twilights. Glacial water on tap to swill powdered bitterness from your mouth, to run against the back of your neck and raise the hairs on your arms. Nothing but you and the DJ who, for all you care, is the messiah.Continue reading “Before the Cataclysm”
‘Do you think we’ll get another referendum, then?’
Something disrupts the song I’m listening to, a sixth sense, a feeling there are eyes on me. I turn around. Un-suction waxy earphones. He repeats his question.
‘Do you think we’ll get another referendum?’
He’s spilling out the bench and his crumpled white shirt. Comic banker rotundness stacked in folds beneath an old suit, topped with bowler hat.
‘I don’t know,’ I muse, ‘probably not any time soon.’ I’ve used this line before, it feels aged, but not like wine, not like whisky.
‘I reckon they’ll block it at every turn.’Continue reading “Black Star”
The air is heavy with perspiration, his t-shirt clings to his back. Outside, the sun lies stagnant on breathless tarmac. And all the flights are delayed. Continue reading “Delays”
He singles in on the gentle trickle of gin over ice cubes, and the hummingbird thrum of metal skimming glass as the bartender mixes a drink. He blocks everything else out until this tiny alcoholic waterfall is the only sound in the world. And then, beat by beat, and with controlled countenance, he lets the noises of the evening back in. Continue reading “Listening to Miles Davis on a Bus in Argentina”