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Rated: 18+ · Other · Experience · #1640527
Listening to Spanish Trumpets on the Balcony. We lived in Spain.
Grins expanding slowly in the back, we ignore bullshit
“Fuck Aznar, eh?” We nodded, drunk with the moment
They showed us badges, antifascist badges, gangs. “Yeah
Bush too, man.” Back before the de-politicization of
Hope, man. We broke out at break, bought cheap beers
At corner stores, pungent with the smell of the ocean
Wandering the beach, and up through concrete marked by
Slowly melting graffiti; the centurion helmets which marked their shit
Woven, with vines, through ETA murals, walking as though
We knew where we were going, or at least as though they did
There’s a lot to learn from each other, to be sure; They,
Looking on as we mixed Fanta screwdrivers, and we, following
In awe up staircases and fire escapes to the rooftops where we
Slept and watched the stars and looked out at the ocean and
Spoke with admiration of armed resistance. Naïve kids, yeah.
Man, but I suppose we knew it. No way anything was gonna
Change, and we basked in it, dancing mindlessly
At the massive bonfires or driving through the foothills in cars
With drivers we’d never met before, snaking across the coastal
Mountains and camping by streams, we’d bathe ecstatically naked
And watch them chant things over flaming tubs of Quemada
We lived a primitivist dream, but made the mistake of believing
That everyone else was dreaming with us.
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