the other perspective

I guess I have some things to thank Art Boy for. If
he had not broken my
heart (as such)

I would never have had so many
long drives with Nomalish and Gilb-y,
jiving to golden oldies, closing
my eyes to deep deep bass and
ashing cigarettes down the motorway. Nor

would I have had those bizarre nights
just with Plant Girl,

likee our "quiet drink" Sunday
night, which turned into

the Rugby Club being kept open later just for us
(muchos muchos whiskeh and wine),
apple sour shots in the Greene King pub

before rolling a spliff openly on the sofa
and smoking outside with
Tom and Fabian (Fabio).

Oh, and then we run off and gorge on
cheesy crisps in the her red car ("lobster"
is good flavour).

Insert confession. I probably would not
have shed those last four pounds that
bothered me so much. Sadness
plus the desire to shake off sadness

appears to burn muchos energy.

I would not have had my strange but
good (very) excursion in Burwell or

kissed that beautiful boy in Boomtown or
had my (minimal) fun in Reading.

I probably wouldn't have
disappeared to Norwich or
had Gil-o over in Roy-town. Just

imagine. Cous and I would never have
discussed hemp in Tesco's or
devoured pizza on the Heath.

I would not have done
what I did tonight. It was Peho's
last night. I have suspicions,

and I could be wrong
'cause I often am,

but I have suspicions that
he has wanted to kiss me for a while?

And so I kissed him.

And then I drove home with
Nom and Siney and Cute-y and a crazy boy but
there was no Gilb-y. These few
weeks really are

tainted with good bye.