City of Gold

From the Skeleton in Yeoville, I could see the whole of Johannesburg set out before me. It was more impressive at night, when the neon madness of the city that never sleeps became stars reflecting in a pool of infinite darkness. Some stars burned steady, constant. Come up here any evening and you’d see the street lights running along the main highways and boulevards, mapping out our playground. Hubs of incandescence scattered from Melville through the CBD to Yeoville and Hillbrow itself. The warming glow of Ponte City rising 54 storeys above those streets of gold. And moving between the hubs, scattered along the highways, were our brothers and sisters, friends and lovers, sons, daughters, mothers and fathers, all part of one living breathing soul. The multitude of faces, voices, colours, bodies, laughing, crying, smiling, dreaming, some familiar, some forgotten, some never to be seen again.

The Skeleton was a burned out shell of a building perched on the edge of a cliff. Probably condemned years before. Probably suicidally unsafe. But it was where we came to watch the sun rise after a night in the clubs. Or where we went for some quiet time, to get away from the noise and the buzz.

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick. Available from www.amazon.com/author/burning

Till next time. Cheers.

Breaking the what?

Strange how those words can’t ever be followed by another sound. As if your ears shut down in shock, a protective mechanism, refusing to hear anything else in case it turns out to be more bad news. The world receded. Music stopped. People vanished. Gravity deserted us. Time became meaningless. We were alone, clinging to one another as we spun madly through a world that no longer made sense. The vodka played its part well, spinning the room at just the right angle and slapping blinkers on the side of my face, that old familiar tunnel vision that seasoned drinkers know so well. All I could see were her eyes, emerald windows into a soul I’d once known as well as my own, cherished more than my own. They were infinity, holding entire worlds of caring and pain and longing within themselves. All the emotions that ever existed were right there in front of me, naked in their honesty, painful in their intensity, reaching for me, calling to me, trying to wrap themselves around me and shield me from what they knew was coming, what they knew was lurking outside of current time and space, crouching in the dark and readying itself.

Raindrops landed on Morag’s upturned face. Warm and salty, I could taste them as they fell. I tried to ask where they were coming from, but the only word that came out was “No.” My head shook itself to confirm this. More raindrops appeared. “No. He said he’d meet me here tonight.”

“John…”

I tried to pull away. I needed to breathe. She held me tighter. “John, don’t. I’m so sorry. Don’t go.”

I remembered the bottle in my hand and took a long drink. Must have spilled some on my face, because it was wet. I wiped it away, sniffing. Probably coming down with something. Another drink should sort that out.

Then the music came flooding back, grounding me again and reminding me where I was. Zeplins. Tuesday night. Urban Assault. And I could see them across the room, the crowd making its way from the bars and the dance floors and the pool tables, crowding into the space in front of the band, ready and waiting. Cliff appeared on stage, still standing in as a replacement singer while they searched for a new front man. He raised his arms to thunderous applause. “Breaking the what?”

The crowd surged forward. “Law!”

“Can’t hear you. Breaking the what?”

More fans poured from the toilets and the stairs leading to the roof. “Law!”

“Louder. Breaking the what?”

Fists and bottles shot into the air. “Law!”

Cliff smiled through his beard.

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick. Available from www.amazon.com/author/burning

Till next time. Cheers.

Agro

I bumped into Cliff, Shane and Mountain as soon as I walked into the Doors. They were excited about the gig and couldn’t wait to get on stage. Overflowing with enthusiasm, as always. I asked whether they were going to need me to fill in for anyone, as I’d done on a previous occasion. Cliff managed to keep a straight face while he reminded me that they’d unplugged me from the amp as soon as they realized that I couldn’t actually play anything except air guitar. But I’d had my 15 minutes of rock stardom. I was happy to call it a day before I burned out like so many others before me, victims of their own fame.

The main dancefloor was practically empty, but the night was still a foetus. Things would get busier soon enough. I made my way upstairs, noticing how wide the stairs were. Most people took this for granted. Anyone who had spent any time at all in Image, didn’t. The toilets in Image were up a narrow flight of steel stairs. It wasn’t unusual to be making one’s way up these stairs, only to be confronted by the towering figure of a punk or skinhead teetering drunkenly at the top of the stairs, trying to make his way down. Political differences aside, the chances of the aforementioned club-goer falling headlong down the stairs were usually 50/50. Discretion being what it is, most people clenched whatever needed to be clenched and retreated to the bottom of the stairs to watch the entertainment, perhaps placing a small side-bet with any other spectators who might have joined them.

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick. Available from www.amazon.com/author/burning

Till next time. Cheers.

Wet dreams

“Sex magick?” Damien asked, with a gleam in his eye.

“Hey, there’s always room for sex magick.”

The gleam turned into a grin. “Speaking of which…”

“Hello, boys.” Morag’s arm went around my shoulder as she gave me a peck on the cheek. “Miss me?”

“You’re always in my dreams,” said Damien. “And I’m sure I’m always in yours.”

She smiled sweetly. I’d been on the receiving end of that smile before. I knew what was coming.

“God, that makes me so hot, Damien, knowing that you lie in bed thinking about me. You want to go up to the roof?”

He should have known better. But base instincts often overrule logical thought. “Why not?” He held out his arm, elbow bent to guide her up the stairs.

“Why not? Well, how about the fact that you’re married?”

Still grinning, Damien was not one to admit defeat. “Don’t you worry your pretty head about that. What Julie doesn’t know, can’t hurt her.” The elbow waited, not quite patiently.

“You’re a pig, Damien. Go away before I throw up all over you.”

“That’s not the tune you were singing a few days ago, darling.”

“It’s what I’m saying now. Try to keep up.”

He waved his elbow one more time. “Last chance.”

Morag took a step to the side. Grabbed my beer bottle. Took a drink. Looked me up and down. Turned to Damien. Looked him over from head to toe. Took another drink. Handed the bottle back to me, with an apologetic shrug. Turned to Damien, took his arm, leaned in close and spat a mouthful of beer in his face.

To his credit, Damien didn’t react immediately. He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Opened his hand and tried to pull his arm free. But Morag wouldn’t let go.

“Happy now, loverboy? Plenty more where that came from.”

He tugged at his arm, but she held on.

“How are your dreams now, sweetheart? Wet, maybe?”

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick. Available from www.amazon.com/author/burning

Till next time. Cheers.