My 80s

There was the imminent threat of nuclear holocaust and the daily torture of disco.
I could still draw and design with the best of them.
There was a future in space out there.
It was colourful as in the painted prophesies of Chris Foss and Peter Elson.
Prophets and philosophers spoke to me from the stained pages of paperbacks
through lucid drug dreams shunned pulp.

Anarchy was a working utopia.

There was powerful music for my heart from hard electric guitars and cold synth.
There were clothes made from black leather and spikes, perfect with mirrorshades.

Sex still was a chimera out there.
And when I finally began to grasp it’s mechanics up came the AIDS scare
There were bleach blonde godessess I could not reach even if I kissed them.
Later I found out that if you fuck them they dissolve into haughty little girls, tears and monthly blood.

Me: skinnier  then, physically weaker then -  could run though,
boy not man, even as a soldier or facing tear gas canisters of the cops.

80s I’m your veteran.
You shaped my heart and mind
Your PTSD branded into my soul
And I don’t want to go back.

But I’m still alive
survived all - and all that came after.
A bunch of them didn’t.
Farewell.
It was them it wasn’t me.

All thats left is words.
Stale dry ashes in my mouth I have to wash down with whisky.
Back then it still was vodka, preferably with orange.

What’s it like to survive your own apocalypse?
Wait for the next?
Zombies maybe?
Really?
You smart-phone-addicts
how could I tell you apart?