YORK ROAD, NOVEMBER 1975

11pm. Guildford, England.

The in-crowd gather in York Road
like exotic moths beneath a street lamp,
in flared denims slashed at the knees
and ridiculously high platform shoes...then they
wander off in a fog of cigarette smoke
until they come to Clive's place.
Each carries a passport of dope
or toxic booze.
Discordant guitar music
and crazy drum beats
throb through every brick
of three storeys, attic and basement.
Red light bulbs cast
an eerie glow onto the stairs,
where two entwined bodies
grunt and squeal,
one hand gripping the banister,
white-knuckled.
Someone yells from the depths,
"Anyone got a syringe?"
as they continue searching
for Clive.
They finally unearth him in his bedroom.
Highly animated, he is entertaining
a group of art students
from the purple stage
of his king sized circular bed.
He is expounding the rudiments
of medieval architecture
in his Stockholm accent,
his extremely long blonde dreadlocks
half-obscuring finely chiseled features.
His yellow, black and white
harlequin print jacket
dazzles in the light of
a myriad of altar candles.
He abruptly stops mid-sentence, yawns,
strips naked and climbs into bed
between red satin sheets,
pulling his chosen concubine
for the night in with him.
"Would you be an angel," he whispers
to an obviously disappointed girl
in harem style trousers
and heavily beaded corset top,
"and go fix all these up with a drink?
And please close the door on your way out -
that lousy band
is fucking with my head!"