to the sound of Canadian pop rock band Marianas Trench
to the smell of choc chip biscuits and homemade bran muffins
mingling with smokey hair and muggy rooms
during the sunny winter days of a Grahamstown on fire
with passion and pain and the sharp intake of breaths.
incessant forward-propelling beats, the drums and and guitars
the faces and bodies and shaking in bars
Slipstream New Street, the people every week
Frank, the bouncer at the door
My friends sitting on the deck belligerent and dramatic like all good drama kids
The hours I spend reeling about you all
And I get stoked when I think that next year bro, we’ll be living like 300 metres apart, and between us there’s a 24/7 shop.
They sell pie.
They always stock Coke.
All you’ve got to do is open the door.
And just when you think I’m done with my weird blog post
influenced by the rhythms of Canadian kids and Linton Kwesi Johnson’s beats
here I come again with a memory of my blue and green duvet
covered in crumbs
Simba chips, Ouma rusks, BP cakes
crumbs everywhere as we laugh and gasp and
wait I have to show you this thing on Youtube
and do you remember in matric
and do you remember in first year
and do you remember
all those nights we spent laughing
hold on hold on hold on
these memories must never die