It was the wrong Riviera
and the sunshine went wasted.
An enormous toilet posed as a pub,
with the drift-life on two pound a pint
from breakfast till night.
Carloads of boys raced up the seafront,
driving badly to war music.
When dark space unfolded from the water
lines of merry fire danced on yacht masts
Moths went bipolar, wondering which way to die.
In the harbor, the sea chewed steadily
until everything turned dull in its mouth.
How did we even find that place?
Nothing left of the sign but
a hissing slice of red down wet stairs.
The owner was leaning on the bar,
sparkling fishnet vest,
mid-period Brando as Captain Neptune
kitbag full of soft ropes and butter.
His barman mate was all bone, ponytail,
borrowed teeth and a nail through the nose
They were both pleased to see us.
The drinks went down, the action rose.
A storm of gnarly girls blew in
all madly in love with each other.
Shot glasses of vodka were pimped
in the palette of Disney insects.
A DJ began to fill the universe with broken noise
The tables, all awash, were jumping
on their scarred legs
the walls ran with psychotic rainbows
or disowned tattoos.
The right Riviera, after all.
Jay Jeff Jones
Illustration by
Martin Sudden
Jay Jeff Jones – 02/05/02