Club Arches

Saturday morning, five O' Clock in the Arches Club but it could be anytime cos I've been laughing all night. Laughing, oh alright so were all those strange faces in the people-pool of the dance floor. I'm in love with the twin jewels of sapphire-green contact lenses bending the light fantastic like the warped fractals of my psyche. Nothing is real here except those extensions of matter and thought wired into the neuronal network that is my Universe. I'm buzzing man, like a spaceman, desperate as Dan on red bull wings. Dry ice obscures the revelers, increases the surreal taste of this session. Friends, oh yeah, you just reminded me, where are they? Pierre, James and Birdman lost somewhere in the crowd that's arrayed upside down like a dynamic standing wave in the heat of glorious celebration. I spill my liquid body from the stroboscopic interior into the street and am blasted by cold, the actuality of near-dawn under this derelict railway bridge. Here the brick drips manufactured teardrops, twisting round algae growth. Drug-shivery and abandoned by the city's morning God. Baptize debris with paper light - yellow clings to yellow lines, like me doubled up. You can't park here.