Lighthouse Beacon

by B

At the far side of the outdoor bar I sit, drink in hand, coat on chair, eyes on you.

You are on the dance floor, far, far away, but I can see you through my telescope: through the prism of the dark and yellow contents of my drink, over the head of the bartender, past the endless rows of bottles, over the other side of the wood, through the gap between the two drunken beer drinking Irish guys – a capsizing rowboat in the middle of a dark unruly sea of syncopated moving male bodies your silver dress flashes by…and by…

Flash…Flash…Flash…

It is hope of salvation where there is none to be had, that silver flash, but through my telescope it is not to be had, it’s the pulsing beacon from a drifting lighthouse, no shore and no anchor, just that rhythmically (moving male bodies) reoccurring light. Drink in hand, coat on chair, eyes on you, I know what the beacon should mean, but it doesn’t.

“Give me another one!” I command the barman, it arrives, and I down it, ordering another one.

Flash…Flash…Flash…

The beacon of my lighthouse. Me, it’s driving further out to sea, and its quality keeps changing in itself, not rhythmically (moving male bodies) but from the inside and out, from my side of the telescope, over the head of the bartender pouring my drink, past the endless rows of bottles, over the wood, through the gap between the two drunken whiskey shooting Irish guys, in the middle of a sea of rhythmically (moving male bodies) and back: from within that angel dress I bought you, out of the merry evening waters of a dance floor Friday evening out, between two Irish drunks, over the bar, past the girl serving me my drink, through my prism, and – oh glory! – rays of sunshine, endlessly and all illuminating penetrating me.

Flash…Flash…Flash…

“One more!”, and it comes. And I down it, ordering yet another. Drink in hand, coat on chair, eyes on you.