Stackhats, stolen Stuyvesants & stereo-receivers

Posted: April 15, 2014 in Short stories, starts & writing

In the garage
Around the warn-felt oasis of a pool table, fluorescent-lit greensward in a terracotta-tiled, garage-cum-billiard-room, we were monkeys in the time of chimpanzees, reflections faffing about in the tarnished mirror of an abandoned, empty art deco cocktail cabinet.

Stuyvesant-stained, beer-can and white wine soaked olds lolled and waxed lyrical down in the house, silver-spoon slurrings in front of a burbling television that no-one was taking any notice of, and we were left to our devices. A ghetto-blaster stood some two-storeys high, two towering tape-decks and a stereo receiver playin’ my favourite song, all night long… Is she coming!? (Is that even what they’re saying?)

Just looking for, just looking for a way around; like the latest fashion, like a spreading disease; can’t see her till I’m foaming at the mouth. Picking it, packing it, firing it up, and I felt like I was wearing a concrete Stackhat piled high with all manner of inanity. Pretty soon though we were shakin’ to that fine, fine music and you know our lives were saved by rock ‘n’ roll. Shooting the shit, over doing it, until it made me sick. It was cold-ass fashion, she and she and she stole my passion. Time was a piece of wax, a termite chokin’ on the splinters. It was an ever lastin’, that ghetto-blaster blastin’.


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