those halcyon times you hope you don't forget, carefree and deliberately dumb fun
necking mushroom caps and catching the train to an exhibition, then leaving the art in favour of an adjacent climbing frame named dave, three of you spending hours inventing a new language, stupidity-intimacy, heaps of giggling, vodka milkshakes and and overpriced chips outside another gallery.
the same three of you kite-high, never leaving the bed, young turk ceasars, comanding red he-she for imbibing...goon punch and indoor smoking.
picnics and parties and revelling in our wilful disregard. I catch myself tearing up over how long past those times have got.
even as we get older we refuse to grow up.
but those times are gone.
since you showed me your real face
was snarling and mechanical.