don’t know who took us there, to this fucked up drag paradise of fluffy pink, smoke-smelling walls, Berliners done up, stripped down, eyes wide open and whisky flowing from the counter in sunshine waves of ecstasy. my friend Earl Huntington and I rented a flat in nearby Prenzlauer berg where we lived on Lidl and beer while working part-time in an artist’s studio gluing feathers to concrete and twisting asphalt into long plaits of solid beauty. in front of us lay nights of labyrinthine technoclubs and failed attempts at lesbian love. the weather cold, biting you all over.
tonight we discussed the future with a fellow Gothenburgian. sitting in a tacky womb of pink fluff he described a matriarchy, women dominating academia and the male sex slowly withering away inside creepy test-tubes, while flirting with us both like he was the last man on earth already. cigarette-smoke infects my eyes, the blurred eccentricity, shouting, shots, the thrill of life seeming smooth and dense like an empty swimming pool. the toilet was never locked and projected snapshots of indecency, brain-imprints, big Turks with fat milky way-tracks of cocaine, crystals glowing bright like disco-lights and BDSM-leathered gays sharing secrets, drugs, perhaps fluids.
we stayed late but not till morning, dumped the admirer and had breakfast at home, listening to the same playlist over and over, talking about important matters instantly forgotten.