After Party

Tie it all together, be the memoir boy. 
We’re all in this together, come the four AM thrill of it. 
Hopeful yet reproachful, come the couple whose face don’t fit. 
They’re hanging with the best of us, 
The scumbags and the rest of us, 
Til it’s clearly time to split. 
He hasn’t really clocked it, But she’s sussed the after party,
And she’s gonna hang around a bit. 
Still, they’re just out of reach of it. Is that his hoodie that’s smelly, (his only one, so past picking) 
Their stomachs lined, just in time, by stone cold bus stop chicken. 
Hardly finger licking, lest you wanna forge a roll up, 
From the shag tobacco Dutchboys chonging Spice to stitch their soul up.

TAKE WE AWAY. Comes the silent prayer of many days. 
COLDER NOW, it bites. 
Especially on their righteous path, Of no bone stone, no brown or K faff, 
Existing on renditions of Bukowski, Joyce and street rap.
In the early morning caffs and in their their multistory, penthouse gaff.  
“Can we please come chill with yous?” Her feet like ice in worn out shoes. Her voice, the optimistic wit, which burrows through the heart of shit. 
Just one response, she champs her bit, so they can get to grips with it.  

“What’s your thing bruv? “ the DJ’s enquiry is leaked.
The main man’s attention is subtly piqued. 
Well. 
I used to make tunes, but my girl was the heart of it. 
Brought it to life, was the soul and the sense of it. 
Lost my job cooking, can’t find KP or nuttin, just braindead and looking, 
Stomping day after today til my threads fell apart on me. 
Face hair turned gnarly, with bags where the eyes should be. 
My girl is no thief so she always depends on me, 
Like I  depend on our love and the dream that we shall be free.
Respected, admired, despite all the cunts throw at we,
Livin the dream boy, 
In the world’s sixth largest economy.  

Now he spits bars, ears tuning in, and on cue come the uber cars. 
All head for the same address, carrying the disks, and the CDJ cable mess. 
Yer man gives a hand cos he’s sober and senses sharp, 
Hours in the cold and dark, dreading the icy park.  
Last taxi, dyspraxia, and the girl is the last one in. 
The DJ entrenched, in the banter they’re swimming in.
Biding his time, and awake for the freshest take. 
Feeling the storm, the potential, this pair could make. 

They’re squashed in the middle, and they’re piled up with tech. 
She can feel the cramp loosen, her shoulders, her calves and her neck. 
He breaks out his dry weed, the one thing the players need. 
Briz Cabs allow it, as long as the driver dude, Kelvin or Melvin, gets a raspy, old choke toke to keep the ride smooth.  

Short trip to house party, where closest crew knows, 
If you made it this far then your part of the show. 
At least for tonight, til they’ve drawn out the gist of you,
Bring out the best of you.
Part of the one night show.
Got through the shit filter, you’re welcome, let’s go. 
Where’s the mics at? The aux lead? Got his tunes on his phone.
As polite as a whisper, they turn down white lines.
Sign of the times, digging deep on the Mic for her hardest won rhymes, 
Which she’s scant had the strength to say, since busking in Bath on the longest of rainy days.
But here – soulful, with barely a pause, with her junglist, hip-hop, garage and folky ways.
See, this pair were ON TOP, and ON TAP and secure, 
Club nights pushing guest spots, and filling the floor,
AND THIS DJ, it’s him! no mistake! they recall him now! 
Arms in the stratosphere, pumping for more, more, more!!. 
Then the moment soon passed by, he felt sharp as she looked fly.
The echo of MORE ! MORE! MORE!
Then the hugging and fist bumps, their crew at the door.
At their own after party. In 2004.