A night out with people you barely know,
dancing dizzy, skinny spinning,
all midriff show; cheapskate too
stingy to check a coat -
we are queens these nights,
first time connoisseurs of sensation and aesthetic;
delight in that tiny feeling:
the sticking the unsticking of
crop top cotton to the skin of my back
with sweat – my purse an almanac of this time,
and I, coy coquette; my receipts
chronicling adventures unfinished as of yet.
This is Georgia’s face in the strobe light’s flash,
fragments of her doing her dance,
and Nick watching his feet, and his
head snapping up again, beaming, to the beat.
It’s permanent marker on my arm
proclaiming me an honorary member of Hugh Stewart hall -
and Broadgate late eats; nutella toast at 2am,
then propping up my tired feet.
It’s collapsing into hysterics and swapping
slang – full hot and plastered and sloshed,
pulling boys and causing disasters,
and when it’s time for a nosh,
putting all the food you have left
between bread, calling it dinner,
and going ahead.
It is a million faces, the ones you draw
in art soc, the ones you smile at
for nervousness, the ones you will never
see again – it’s being completely free.
Fresher’s week is going for the double shot of vodka,
sharing black seal rum, wine glasses smashing
or cheersing, then crashing before we see the sun.
My flat mates’ faces popping out their doors
one by one, making conference room of the hall
and collapsing into giddy, giggling free-for-all.
It’s when I can’t hear the bar tender, I’ll just say yes;
it’s getting a pint when you needed much less,
it’s a 3 pound 50 bumper car ride under neon flashing lights
and Georgia by my side, faces grinning wide…
it’s the feeling curled inside like a sleeping dog,
the warm contentedness of knowing you belong.