WALPURGISNACHT

Halloween.

Musty, cordite, cancerous. 

Explosive ghoulish days.
Roller-coaster shrieked nights.
Way way north of Walpurisnacht

Sweating. Fever.
48 hours.
All of Virginia’s sheep.

Day of dead volcanic ride. Same. Same. Eternal train of same.

Same slept rooms. Same. Shame. Decades, continents. All. Same.

Bamboo, rattan, straw. Same

Bangkok, Penang, Singapore, Phnom Penh. Same.

Apartments, guest house, hotel, Hong Kong cell. Same.

Fan whipping remorse repetition. Same.

Heat. Same.
More heat . Same.
Regret sewer waft. Same.
Torture. Habitual. Torture. Same.
And always the insult of diarrhoea. Same

Outside firework die hard.
Ceasefire.
Safely coffee stable.
Phone. Phone. Mockingly mute.

But. Hark. Hard. Hark.
A call.
Well.
That's it.
What’s done is done.

Soon grinning ‘Frank’.

Downs two mobiles.

And a glass of red.

Palm wine fast.

The fire is lit.

Ghosts at bay.
Consciousness away

On the home run now.
Rush.
Busy. Busy.
Warmth.
Busy.
Piped Expectation.

“Do you cook on it?”

“We cook on them in my village,” Frank says.

Then with mobile ring Nigerian ‘Frank’ is off to Eddie Rockets.
While TV talks of default.
Rush.
We're all in a rush.
It's all in the rush.

“We cook on them in my village.”

Fireworks.
Trick or treat?
Who the fuck knows?



(See this and all the other dramatic pieces of verbal and visual work in the critically acclaimed collection of digidelic delight 'I Love The Internet' here: http://itsapoeticalworld.com/book-shop/)