Grey, Orange and Light Blue

The names flash in neon orange color and make me feel like a coma patient who just got back to the world of living. Of moving. Of talking. Of naming.
St. Johann, Kleinhüningen, Forellenweg... Names, so familiar to me yet distinctevly foreign. I can´t put them on a map. I just can´t figure out where this was, when it was, how it was. Where it was. Graffiti slurs over a grey wall, I gaze under a bridge, try to catch a glimpse as the bus cleanly rolls by. Maybe there is a JANE, maybe there is a piece of a wild, almost forgotten past. Busses are so clean here, so smooth, so orderly. They arrive on time. The always do. The doors shut and open properly, zooming open zooming shut, silently like in a space shuttle or so it feels.
There are no ramblers, no gamblers, no stumblers in this bus. I unpack my guitar, there is a lot of space in the bus at night, I start to play the blues.For the ramblers and the gamblers in a different bus in a different time in a different world. And for those stumbling out there somewhere hidden, in the grey darkness of old.
Bridges, tunnels, streets, narrow streets, old houses. Passing by, grey in grey. Memories like rugs, fluttering in the midspring wind, trying to escape the prison of my thoughts. I really try to remember.
The jam session nights in the old trainstation. You have to drink and smoke more a rugged man said, the light was all glow and gloom and glitter and orange golden. M. bought me drinks, I wondered whether the other guys knew he had bought me too. With his smile, his eyes, his curly hair. He was a terribly bad drummer though and sex wasn´t that good but hot behind the freight waggons.
My room, so beautiful, with bright red-orange sheets on the bed and the Portugues´parfume, Light Blue by Dolce and Gabbana. The Angolan Sunshine, his perfect driving rhythm guitar and the shabby basement where we practiced and I almost poisoned myself spraying for the first time in my life in the hidden.
The attic of beautiful Anoushka, so high above the brickstone roofs, where I made love for the first time.
She loved the Doors and tea and my poems.