Make it to Lunch by Dom Rella

Make it to Lunch

Morning breaks, the sun’s bright & I’m always up late. Weird dreams, dancing prancing multi-coloured fantasy. No scream, thank goodness.

It’s the late 2000s, 3 am, Peter & Richmond…. Horse-carried pigs patrol the drunk and disorderly. Millenial youth, escaping the reality of the financial crisis. Existential dread. Can’t get a cab….Neon purple reflection of my shadow, in the puddle, Faint beat billowing outside the emptying clubs. the alley ways of Hogtown don’t scare me; the liquor had clouded my judgement, all night, I’m in need of a serotonin boost. Luckily, a forgotten friend is found in the crevices of my torn Steve McQueen wallet, from another lover. She’s just who I needed and although my reality is skipping through motor oil-seasoned puddles, in my mind I’m skiing down the slopes as my fantasy arrives. Graffiti alley always holds such an emphatic charm when alone and catching. Can’t keep up the resistance Toe taps Ye raps Body groovin’ Feet movin’ Street lights dim I begin to grin Snowfall imminent I’m getting into it Night begins to fade Beat strayed Slip and drop my phone Time to go home

It’s almost dry, my party of 1 is relatively done as the new day breaks, the sky looks euphoric. The baby blue backdrop with strings of purple and pink. Orange over the horizon, the high is now low and I’m back to the suburbs for some Sunday Sugo.

Let’s Be Friends