Moon shadow in the age of disco . . .
Between leaving school and starting university at the end of the ’70s, I lived in London for a while. My brother was in love with a Qatari prince whose main occupations were shopping and clubbing.
As an adopted member of his entourage and with all expenses billed to the royal account, no libidinous caper was beyond the wish of this healthy young man. Before a night on the town, we would meet at Peppermint Park then go on to Tramp, Sombrero, The 100 Club, Annabel’s or Ronnie Scott’s.
Hot to trot to Ronnie Scott’s . . .
Holding hands on pretext of impossible heels
slipping on concrete, polished and wet.
Dextrous as a thief, safe as a banker’s bet,
I guide her virtue to Peppermint Park
to hang like we mean it and slit our eyes at skies bleeding dark,
and ride pink piping bar-stools, thighs pricked by green velvet
legs crossed, so nonchalant, so cool,
we tip like notables and hoover cocktails
fizzing with sparklers she snuffs with her nails . . .
. . . at Peppermint Park in a booth in the dark,
Keith knifes tapas with Annette, Linda and Paul.
The night he died . . .
RIP Keith Moon b: August 23 1946 d: September 7, 1978 ~ Drummer, The Who
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© Rod McRiven 2017