i do not like going to arcades as I find these childish and arcane ways of entertaining one’s self a waste of money you could’ve spent on books or time you could’ve spent reading. At the risk of sounding highbrow I would rather stay home alone but upon the insistence of boredom, I lugged along, a decision I am grateful for and always will be.

I was bored and made my way through tapestry tokens, dulcet puffs of sticky cloud cotton candy of baby pink, honking, bonking, zonking sounds of hedgehog hammers and phony basketball hoop shootings blaring into my ears dismantling my cochlea into bits. In the whirlwind of all the overwhelmingly nauseating stimuli, I turned my head and the Beatles said it better,

I saw her standing there.

There, in the middle of the maddening tornado of “YOU LOSE” and ‘TRY AGAIN”, porcelain white skin and narrow oval face, nubile eyes the size of globes her silken ebony hair tied in a ponytail, clamped by a girlishly pink ribbon I’d love to unclamp just to see her night raven hair cascade like a waterfall. Her pert lips kiss a microphone head whilst brown pupils dilate and eyes flicker with song lyrics on karaoke screen singing with saccharine voice and piercing screams “we don’t need no education”, prog rock song melting into pock, glancing at friends, changing her beautiful mind skipping songs and putting sex pistols on-oh how raucous she could be hypnotising me with her jumping, spinning, twirling, coiling mic wire around her svelte little body, me wishing I was the electric wire, she oh beautiful little hellraiser whom I supposed had hyperactivity disorder with her ticktockticktocktick energy pumping making her move never missing beat nor breath. I listened in, forced screams her English origin evident in her melodious cockney with rounded vowels sounding fancy, me picturing her as a royal princess and I a lowly jester

Her look shifted to me and I turned to stone but trembling lips that smiled back. In that moment I rattled for her and ached for her to reach for me and tug me to her stage, let me hold the mic awkwardly as she jumps about in pirouettes, with me embarrassingly singing “god save the queen” creaky croaky voiced, sweaty palmed, and all whilst her effervescent beauty danced on energetically. In the seconds her eyes would focus on me, the arcade turns iridescent where all was an amalgam of ever shifting colors and the only thing corporeal was her and me in LSD imagery.

But reality’s a bitch and she’s out of points, the karaoke screen halting no music coming just the placid movements of digitally engineered people and cheap anime imitations dancing. She looks at me with a smile, expectant heart of mine anticipating her approach but all my fantasies melted when she turned and left without as much as a farewell. Merrily striding  long steps, ponytail swishing as observant british head of hers and doll-like brown eyes scanned the place overloaded with lights eager to try something new while immovable, bashful starstruck me watched flimsy pixie slip through my fingers traversing from my trap to her land of colourful freedom, only lit by wild theme park colors, dimpled beams of hers and “nevermind the bollocks” I could’ve chased and pursued but my strength was used up, her sex appeal exhausted me by  petrifying me.

Ah there she goes devoured by iridescent colors but mentally she’s still vivid, a place locked in for her. I never got her name but she reminds me of a gypsy. Wild never steady strange alaways moving. I hope to someday see tattered midriff shirt and pipecleaner jeans, ponytail tied tight, breasts bursting from the seams, doc martens of brown like the windows to her vagabond, hell raising soul, singing “London calling” with pretty pert cherry lips, british accent in tow, a mad cauldron of aesthetics

I didn’t regret the arcade but I regret not being bold. Maybe one day we’ll run into each other and sing once more, my beautiful vagabond.



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