Secret Party Crashers

Recollect my friend,

meeting up on a

Saturday night

outside Bristol Hippodrome.

 

It was 1972 I'd

just turned eighteen,

me in my brown suede,

knee high platforms

 

with long flowing

Indian wrap, thought

I looked so cool,

weren't we starry eyed?

 

Trudging up Park Street,

admiring each others jewelry,

University students on our minds;

a suggestion of patchouli to entice,

 

up and down White Ladies Road

crawling from one pub to next,

till reaching Clifton Village our

final watering hole: The Albion.

 

Evaluating atmosphere,

both ears and eyes open

for a party, obsessing

but not too blatant.

 

Outside in courtyard

on Summer evenings,

flagstones so cool,

too hot to be inside,

 

wooden tables,

benches would be

heaving with

much talk and laughter,

 

loud music

coming from

jukebox inside...

what was playing?

 

Probably: Argent – Hold Your Head Up,

Rod Stewart – You Wear It Well,

Mott The Hoople – All The Young Dudes,

or even Lindisfarne – Meet Me On The Corner.

 

We'd be smiling

at our ingenious ventures,

moving in on the clique

endearing ourselves,

 

till final accomplishment,

thrill of discovering an

all night gathering,

chance to party through till morn,

 

“We're friends of Dave's,” we'd say

trying hard to look serious,

always picked

a common name,

 

guaranteed it always worked.

“Come In,” would be declared

with ease, only too pleased

for more revellers.

 

Strolling into mansion

high ceilings, kitchen

filled with aromas of

spices and many faces,

 

heading back into

main area,

so many people

living in the moment,

 

arms making

shapes in the air

Silver Machine made

our presence known,

 

switched on to waves

of our own making,

yet then we felt

love transcending,

 

through bare feet

right to the core,

elevating minds

embodying

 

those colorful

violet sounds,

now like make believe

it was all so long ago,

 

when beats – rhythms,

lights gave groove to

banter, musty elevating,

embodying each vision.

 

We secret party crashers

along for a crazy ride,

tripping like in poetry,

chancing on others energy,

 

open to

voices

speaking a

thousand words.

 

In my head

I've flown across

a starry universe

taking me so high,

 

now gentle dreams

fly on wings of

migrating birds as

breathless bodies relax,

 

in morning light

cold I stood alone,

heart open to

many emotions,

 

it may exhaust,

but no life is real

unless there's

feeling.

 

Could I become the

way of a teenager again?

Perhaps in another life or

am I just kidding myself?