The Spire.

He was still too young to know that the heart’s memory eliminates the bad and magnifies the good, and that thanks to this artifice we manage to endure the burden of the past.

– Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera.

Now, I like a drink as much as the next guy but the next guy is sobbing beside me in piss-specked boots, vomit running down his trembling chin, lamenting a girl he never even loved. “We’re all just pissing in the wind,” he says as the hulking bouncer circles us like a hungry shark, “pissing in the fucking wind.”

“Think you’ve had enough, mate,” the shark bites but the fuck he has! and a premium Belgian lager crashes to the floor like an offertory.

The sobbing man is led out into the darkness He called night where a congregation of waiting taxis glow in fine drizzle beneath the pale streetlights on New Union Street.

I am alone.


That’s the Moonlight Sonata humming in the fillings of my teeth.

That’s the cries of dissolution that crow beneath the jaunty Ska beat.

That’s history writhing beneath us like the biblical Beast.

Watch the mystery play as we play it today, take another slug of the hard stuff. It burns, burns as the Christchurch had in the shadow of the Heinkel He.


I stammer through the crowd, I’m imploring the DJ to play Right Right Now Now, but I’m drowned out by two stags rutting beneath a setting sun.

A baying crowd of sycophants and chauvinists swamp the ancient spire in search of another Duvel and chaser, a hunger buried in their eyes and a fire screaming through their veins, and I slip into the courtyard, out beneath the watchful eye of the spotlight and the torches, the brooding shark still skulking on the corner.

The Guinness is now on tap and the dancers in full flow. The air is green and full of laughter. The old boys bow their heads and turn to the musicians in hope of repose. 

A choir warm their vocal chords beneath the vast pine canopy, as the socialists cheer their former Lord and all the battles they had won.

Lou is waiting for his man.

Mick is 2000 light years from home.

Lucifer son of the morning, Max gonna chase you out of earth.

First date.

Blind date.

No date.

How did it get so late so soon?

God has spoken. Out on Bull Yard. 


READING: Total Shambles, by George F.

LISTENING: The Other Side of Midnight, by Johnny Jewel.

2 thoughts on “The Spire.

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