andy-spzukA barman takes orders, rows of glasses stand stoutly, perusing the pandemonium
The polished bar gleams from sturdy efforts of the cleaner, scent of ammonia
Scrubbed up Sunshine takes a bus into town, to walk among fellow enthusiasts
A search is on for heavenly bodies, preceded by the steady flow from a pint glass

Takeaway neon echoes serve up slices of sparkling light on to Slab Square
Aromas blending, cigarette smoke weaving and wending, toxic as Tony Blair
Trams glide along rails at the side of the fountain, the skyline smoulders
Citizens sit together, take a drink or two, brush off chips on shoulders

A gorilla and a ballerina ride a Raleigh Chopper, custom built, now a tandem
Rock music leaks from cellar bars into side streets, DJ spinning discs at random
Metal machines, marauding monsters, leather clad, guitars screaming, blown fuses
Night life easily morphs into fright night, chemicals collide in multiple abuses

Tourists, students and locals pose for a photo with Brian Clough, statue of a legend
Sunshine enjoys a clear night sky, looking for his own elusive happy ending
Chattering over the clattering of beer trays, where hopes and drinks get spilled
Sunshine casts his eye over the company. On nights like this, dreams get killed

The honking horn of a taxi, the cackle of hen parties, hunted high and low by stags
A bus door hisses, concertina movement, a symphony of stiletto, elegant straggle
Short sleeved shirts gather together, whatever the weather, it’s a hot night
From a pigeon’s perspective, the scenes on the streets below are regular sights

Liquid refreshment loosens tight lipped tension, Sunshine holds on to his intention
A sea of eyes, drowned by disco diva disguises, faces painted for fascination
Sunshine drops ice cubes into a long glass, a depth charge to fire up his voice
He asks for a dance, the first shaky steps towards romance, egged on by the boys

Mobile phones vibrate, a cacophony of ring tones, texts herald a grand arrival
Swooping down, birds flutter, but Sunshine is all hers, underneath the mirror ball
He finds an empty table, their dance becomes a twisting tango of tongues
Stories of his decorating prowess are told, to impress, of wallpaper well hung

An exotic bird borne of some natural grace, this time Sunshine is left seated
As she excuses herself, maybe to powder or put on lippy, the chance has retreated
The music becomes background, Sunshine left to ponder on failure and rejection
But the brooding is only brief, back with the boys, he takes heart, finds resurrection

He remembers her face like a photograph, coal black hair, Skeggy blue eyes
It’s never over he decides, not until the darkness has died. Not until the next sunrise
At the night club, the doorman never smiles, so when it’s time to eject the unruly
He can do so without feeling guilty, in the style of Conservative austerity

Maybe Sunshine’ll see her there, he’s smitten, he knows it, hopes he hasn’t blown it
It’s after midnight, the beer is still slipping down smoothly, maybe the bird has flown?
At the last dance, he digs out those coal black curls, goes over, she says yes
Their bodies conspire to admire each other’s curves, she gives him a slow kiss

The speakers hurl out a last beat, together they walk outside. A half moon smiles
Slab Square, a magic carpet, buskers still strumming guitars, they walk for miles
Together, away from the city, perfect for romantic endeavours, he’s a floating feather
Night buses pass, revellers returning home, the end of the night, a seed of forever

Sunshine walks her home, around them city sleeping, oblivion beneath closed eyes
‘Ring me’ she whispers, closing the door, he’s alone with his own emerging sunrise
He lifts up his head to take the sun’s kiss, holds his phone, gazes at her number
It’s tomorrow already, so he plans to call her later, when she’s woken from slumber

His every step down the street, in the stark light, becomes the city’s heartbeat
Along Trent Bridge, he savours the moment, the river shimmers, the cool air sweet
Street lamps glow golden, his spirits are emboldened by a sense of true belonging
A night that can never be forgotten, his narrative rewritten, a new dawn beckoning

© Andy Szpuk 2014. All rights reserved.