Old Fashioned Analogue Connection
Old enough to remember 

heavenly club nights 

dirty, flirty, under thirty

smoke-stinging eyes 

scanning the length of an almost empty bar.

The cloying smell of Kouros 

mild desperation,

heavier than dry-ice, 

the lilac smoke of a thousand Marlboros

and stale pungent amyl nitrate.

Don’t let me go home, 



from youth to middle age 

a spontaneous 


boom-boom filled adventure,

another smoke-filled, 

dazzling disco-ball assault 

on the senses.

Halfway around the world

to find myself back in the day

a moments nostalgia 

vulnerable, laid exposed

by your inviting, smiling

smoke-stinging eyes, 

a hint of a Javanese Gene Kelly.

I transcend my broken history, 

a narrow projected idea of

‘eastern mystery’

to find my own jaded eyes,

cleansed of the years of ciggie smoke,

and pixelated genitals

across the digital toxic airwaves.

Refreshed in a cool running spring

of overflowing senses when 

I got to taste-test your sweetness

outside the bar, 

the moment gone all too soon,  

by a cheery wave.

Then a chaste walk home,


floating, lighter than dry ice,

on the smoke of a thousand Marlboro’s.

Well who knew

I was capable of making an old-fashioned

analogue connection…


I took your What’sApp number.

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