29 January 2010

grapefruit juice

I was one of them.

Summer dresses and bottles of cider in a park,
oversized sunglasses and as many close friends as new faces.
I wore patterned blouses and the brightest blue jeans
and sometimes even funny animal ears or strange make up, twisting
around a washing-line may pole, stoned with hispanics.
I wore tiny shorts with gold ballet slippers in Warsaw when I was chasing
a boy in the tightest black jeans to a jazz club and I had a bottle of pink grapefruit juice under my arm. The summer air and Stalin's towers watching me dance over cars.
They all look like strangers now. Insects before a great frost, they writhe around in pollen, overgrown and  unsure if they are with the right one or if they are too old to wear that or to wake up drunk with a 22 year old. All of their fears are closely guarded, they ride their bikes down to the pub in playsuits. They talk a bit about art or someone's cocktail ring... they wake up drunk, they watch a vampire series, they get marked on their appearance, they drink pinot with dinner now because it's hot. The hole in their culture is too big to fill with chitter chatter and they get this and turn to Buddhism for a bit, or go to Thailand to soak up sun with a twist of asian culture. They contemplate India before realising they are just consumer cosmopolitans and not at all like the ancient Athenians and they're all washed up in a dreamtime and will only wake up as grey as their parents.