And we would sit under the Lebanese night
and discuss politics and literature in the darkness.
Shrouded figures sat at tables talking
but not seeing.

Because of him I read Burmese Days and heard of Trotsky
and the perpetual revolution that remained
still born.
Later we would amble over to the Albion and drink our beers
and talk with gangsters, philosophers, pimps and junkies.

In that night when chaos reigned
a girl jumped on stage
inviting all the thieves to a party
somewhere deep in Carlton.

The night was empty of stars
save for neon popping lights of streets
that left our minds smouldering in the incendiary haze.

We smoked hash
and the night
blurred like a carousel.

Inside the old house we sat around with young men and women,
uniformed police smoked from a hookah,
stoned
immersed in
Cairo nights
and apocalyptic visions still to come.

And my heart pounded
and my head exploded
with the colours of a million covenants
lost somewhere in Carlton.