We’d convinced the girl behind the screen to let us climb the church tower. We were both stoned beyond human comprehension – only nature could understand us now – but with her bored expression and indigo hair, we could see a kindred spirit. Arms over shoulders we talked about the coming of the Lord, and how we needed to get really high, because we wanted to run our fingers through the clouds, and you kept spitting on the glass every time you tried to pronounce a hard ‘th’. Never mind. Our tickets were punched, and I swear I caught a smile as a lock of dark purple hair curled over an ear pockmarked with empty piercings.
Up the narrow stone steps we wound, tripping over each others ankles, inhaling all the smells of history – damp, dust and decay. Emerging on a ledge, supported by one thousand year old masonry, we stared up at the same sun from all those ages ago, and ran our fingers through the grooves left by people long since lost. No tombs, no bones, no names, just the gashes in the rock. I carved our initials into the soft stone to continue the journey.
Your lapdance around the spire was bizarre. Uncordinated. You stripped like a propeller rather than a dancer, flinging clothes and limbs everywhere. Quoting The Dane, you screamed into the air; I have of late, wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth…
I sat down, watching you self destruct, what a piece of work…
jimmi campkin 