Friday Night....Or Something - JLG Clift

So the evening has gone from the Camden Sprawls where the Buck minus the Head with a golden pout rusting on his hinged mount lurks, and the town’s twisting from a recessive lynching in the grooves of yesteryear, slowly we moved, on the 102’s listing root that feels like it’s been scrawled across the northbound boroughs to the furrows of a suburban home where greenery surrounds in the hush of the darkness and I’ve seen the would be prince prattle hurling rattle after rattle from his stroller weeping for dear Lola who could not attend to everyone with ears to shoot at; but have no fear Lola is near, banging the boy next door; well not next door, but you know how it goes and now the boy knows how hard she blows and I’m far from enjoying the show tonight; the ‘Prince’, he thinks someone’s becoming him; he thinks too much of himself more wealth than sense I guess and it’s 2:30AM and the burnouts smoulder in their doused hula hoops and unlit fire sticks loop through the air of the living room.

 ‘watch the TV, mind the portrait’

The host’s patience is grating but the dampened display spins on and another Foster fostered in his grip is gone in a gulp to swerve the nerves and the egotist to my right keeps telling me how the gash he’s been getting is so tight.

‘as tight as my abs’

 He’d never forget the abs and a contact ball rolls across the floor and is caught by the girl at the door who goes onto control the orb with an absolute poise and the noise from the speakers is still going and the drink is flowing and everyone is watching in suspended awe as she explains how the ball is used as it continues to cruise across her hands and fingertips.

 ‘you have to keep it in the centre; it’s called isolation’

The ‘bro’ quotes a cut rate quip about the nation trying to pass it off as his own before seg-waying into a rant about his current bout of Insanity-induced constipation; it brings a downwards slant to my smile I must confess and this boredom has put me under such duress I’d like to put my hand to his face punch the buck loose from his front tooth. Like I care, like I fucking care but I don’t want to share tonight so I have to endure the right man gnawing on my lobe; there’s no need for a fight there’s no need to put a right foot wrong or right or change the song that sounds like it’s stuck and this ‘bro’ goes on informing me of his latest fucks.

‘whatever guy, whatever guy’

It’s all gas like she’d ever bat an eye towards his braille bound face when she’s got an ass like he describes, if she’s got an ass like he describes. Weights only go so far and she’s not ever going to wait for him as a fresh joint is passed to the left from another girl’s slim fingertips her lipstick stuck to the skin and it’d be a sin not to tote away as the jammed chorus continues to play on and on and on.

‘where do ideas come from?’

Where don’t they?

 ‘Happy 18^th mate’

‘we’re cutting quickly for another crate’

 where did all this hate come from? What did these hapless hopeless cross legged weed freaks slow to speak and slower to their feet but quick to the draw taking totes from a fresh score do wrong and why don’t they change the fucking song or kick the speaker or close the door behind them or change the fucking record.

Or something.

‘are you enjoying your birthday?’

No.

‘Yes’

I did not confess it’s not worth the stress to challenge what I’ve outgrown because now the draw is done and we can all go home and this can all go away until, come what may, we roll up again.

‘same time next year?’

Do I have a choice?

Do I voice my views?

‘sure’

What’s the fucking point? Give me a drink and a joint and let the booze flow like lava and I’ll try to loose myself from this wealth of anti-social thoughts.

Or something.