Monday, February 29, 2016

30 Summers.

Summer was the multitude of swimwear hanging over the towel rack in the bathroom
It was short shorts and red nails on the overheating pavement of kings cross
Big hair, headbands and rig.
Bloody marys in the morning
An unquenchable thirst for champagne.
It was drinking coffee again and revisiting hot nights at 77.
It was rolled cigarettes on the windowsill
Shared sunsets on the rooftop
It was golden girls in bed
And men, too. 
A season of heavily intoxicated vices.

It was riding fast on motorbikes
one handed.
And riding fast with both hands 
clutching fistfuls of hair. 
Valley overlooking tree houses
Magical new friends
Old feuds, ended.
A hand around my throat
First times
And last times before their time.
Madonna in the shower
Nights listening to the blues
The bottom of a whiskey glass.

It was ceiling fans and beach afternoons
Making out all over Sydney.
It was sitting at my desk and writing, again.
Parties at Aimees house.
Parties everywhere.

It was long mornings in sheets
And afternoon naps
It was Bowie.
So much Bowie.
And lots of glitter.
Glittering your whiskers.
It was the summer of all emotions and no tears.

Guitar lessons on Tristan’s floor
Naked swims at redleaf twice in the last week of summer in a last ditch attempt to grab it by the reins.
There’s a serenade crew in the bedroom taking turns on the guitar
And my own silence, drowned out by orgasmic groans.

It was dangling my legs in Emily’s pool
Like teenagers, in denim shorts and baseball t shirts
Sweaty dancefloors and neverending entertainment
Lunchbreaks at the beach
and life mimicking novels.

A summer than began with confident independence.
And ended in overheated senses.
A summer like heady jasmine.
Ripe, over scented, sickening and addictive.