kicking stones and calling friends,
a laziness accepted
those miserable mornings and
NeVeReNdInG nights
in the scene,
electric lights,
the other side, the night kround
then coming to,
and knowing
how good it is
to do
nothing
for days and daze
wearing worn in denim shorts we'd cut ourselves,
fibres frayed as we went on walking,
kissing tiny flowers, our broad bright sun hats to protect our faces
and going on listening to sounds we could not hear,
like the sound of the ground
underneath the feet of art foxes and street kids
with spray cans and skateboards;
posers, high rollers, and poster boys, stand shirtless
girls too
behind super shades their Hella Swag hanging out,
and then, we spot him
Johnny Drinkwater in the clear of the park
with a picnic spread out ...
a scene that, in the sunlight,
broke up before our eyes
into a million tiny puzzle pieces
a summer that could only be remembered through easy snaps, photographs
and through the clear, we saw him
'what you got there Johnny Drinkwater'
"...burnt chicken and bad wine..." he said
we ate the chicken, we drank the wine,
it was horrible but the best we'd ever tasted,
because inbetween bites and sips were those moments that just before we bit and sipped were better than when we were bitting and sipping,
we didn't know what it was called, nor did we care to know
our cups never peeping brims,
they were always Half Full...
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