Ecstacy Evenings

Friday night at the end of the October Sunshine Day. They sit stooped on benches swinging shoes in sea of Sycamore leaves, using too many s's. Talking slowly of days spent in fear and often loathing they watch the passing of an eerie world, wipe glitter from their eyes, cough Marlboros until their lungs ache, sigh until their hearts hurt. They drop listening to street lamp's dreary orange tale and swap Superman's for Calafornian Sunshines like baseball cards. By the time The Rush fills their veins they are safely inside The Junction, running up and down stairs, leaving behind a trail of glitter so that friends can find them. They invade chill out rooms talking, whispering, spilling cups of water, forgetting and then beginning again stories of nights spent in pubs in Sheffield, Tinseltown at dawn, Castle Hill for sickness and glowing sunrise, London Bridge and Midwinter Estate in a bouncer's car. Talking of and stroking Vans black trainers they are led
into conversation by shoelaces, still coughing, over that subtle knot which makes us man. Heliumheaded heroes wandering into the nausea of the dancefloor in an attempt to keep up with their beating hearts. They turn to see angels dancing next them in headbands, eyes engulfed in deep dilated space; glimpses of a galaxy far far away. Abandon bodies to a greater force of a frenzied movement which, they suspect, may be Perfection, whist beside them the angels wait for the bass to drop. In between they run upstairs, huddle and glow together, the platonic conversationalists; drooling over icepops, stroking like sex and all the while arguing ideas of people they've never met and mishmash of
twisted thoughts and massages with the music still reaching into their brains.

When morning comes they stand frozen as sepulchral statues, blinking in the drear light of today. Rush to a communal hiding place where they pull curtains shut and coat collars up and recontinue the search for oblivion and Earl Grey. Queue bluebell mornings of Saturdays and blowbacks in clouds of smoke. hot baths Vs. Bob Marley, wary of the six new friends telling that they are prophets of their own minds, lost in their own time, unable to find the answer because it comes to them only when they close their eyes. Eventually pale faces rise to meet the day. Hollow eyes and ashes of bright minds walk pale and wasted through this daytime dimension, each facing the grey and the postman alone. Wander lost over the railway bridge and soon retreat to bedrooms, leaving no broken hearts. Then back to normal conversations and same old Sixth Form stories and using too many s's again. Sweet sweet souls lie bleeding on The Junction car park floor, covered in cigarette butts. They close their eyes and carry on; conversation midweek become requiems to Friday's dream.