June 2008 Archives
Strong stone walls
protect your city
But still invaders have
come and come again
Romans, Vandals,
Byzantines, Arabs, Catalans
And now the tourist.
Secrets of
In shadowy rooms, amongst
old men on park benches,
In the silence of
churches and the laughter of school children.
Smells of cooking waft
round the corner.
Magenta bougainvillea
spill over white walls.
Turquoise seas glisten.
Undulating green hills
nestle family vineyards, citrus and olive trees.
Beyond each cove lies
another hidden beach to explore,
Clamber over the red
rocks with hues of purple.
Bask in the sun.
British and German menus
at every restaurant.
Beer, fish and chips,
sausage and chips, all of the usual appear.
Red faces and oversized
bodies line the beach,
Blond children laugh as
they build sandcastles.
Waiters flip from one
language to another.
‘Could you get me la
cuenta,
por favour?’
The hostess with no bra,
surgically enhanced breasts and a tight, white t-shirt
Strides across the
secluded beach bar
All eyes follow her.
Shiny toned bodies
glisten on the white beds.
The sound of waves
crashing is drowned out
by the chill-out music,
sending brains heavy with
alcohol to sleep.
A statue of Buddha sits
in every bar watching,
The ironic accessory of
Ibizan cool.
‘
A line, perhaps a pill.
Let the music take you
away.
Feel the beat. Respond to it. Lose yourself.
A tingle in the spine.
Arms rise. Ecstasy.
Down and up again.
The DJ takes you for a
ride.
Gorgeous dancers girate
and pump.
A massive heaving body of
dancers
Find unity. Everyone is your friend.
The cockrel crows. Orange light fills the sky.
The dazed clubbers come
spilling out
To another club, to
breakfast, to bed or even to
‘Es muy raro,’
says one old man.
‘Pero es la isla de
fiesta.’
1/6/08
1. The bill
2. Clubs in Ibiza
3. It's very strange.
4. But it's the island of parties.
