Are you sad we missed it? We didn't miss it. This is it.
Young romantic love on the 365 from Rashidiya. Kylie and Jason, two beautiful Filipino teens, joyously handsome whenwilltheybefamous in eighties ripped jeans, lush black hair and floppy flicks, dare to share the K-Pop sparkle of young love with their eyes and hands, scatter fairy dust, as they descend the stairs.
The Beatles knew it. Not sex and drugs and rock and roll, but I wanna hold your hand, as two teen girls walk by hand in hand, nonchalantly look over and flash warm, conspiratorial smiles. We warm ourselves on those smiles, says Mr Dowd, comfortably seated astride an old orange box in the alley behind Charlie's Bar. My mother said to me, Elwood, in this life, you have to be either oh so smart or oh so pleasant. I recommend pleasant.
Pressed white sleeves like neatly folded handkerchiefs, the priest's hands washed in a silver bowl, lascivious sips of blood red wine from a silver chalice, pure white Body of Christ, Do this in memory of me. Blind, vulnerable tongue points submit to public spectacle, as brides present snow white necks and bloody canines flash behind dowdy gabardine. Like Bernini's ecstasy of Saint Teresa transcends translucent in marble bouche bée, as the panther leaps joyous from the rational cage. Ecstasy on a grassy bank, watching our souls conjoin in aire. Dare to get naked with an angel on the hospital lawn, or frozen stiff in the surf on a west coast beach at midnight
O runs naked blades and witnesses red and yellow neon brutally affront the infinitely gentle, time and time, and time again.
I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Rides through Big Nothing's ripped backsides, weary they're still going through things we got over years ago.
Recall how the grotesque gothic archer lurches forwards and the shopping centre opens and Princess Alexandra, back-combed blonde, posh and flawless, devastates in lemon sherbet. Grammar school boys released from Physics, herded onto waiting buses, line the road and wave their little flags.
And later that day, openmouthed, O rides the escalator, heaves school boy leather briefcase to buy a Beatles blue knitted tie, and slick and slender, black, red and white and excruciatingly tight autographed Georgie Best boots, and check out the sequinned, flame-haired crazy World of David Bowie.
He's on a loop. He's on a loop. Everyday hurts on the radio, as a young man across the street tenderly kisses her soft offered mouth, touches her small blonde pea-pod powdered cheek with his, and holding her close, feels her warm body through smooth grey serge on cold boogie nights.
How do you avoid going through all these things twice? Nietzsche's eternal return.
You can't, old man, of course you can't, says O once more to no-one in his council flat in Salford.
