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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. |