Musty, cordite, cancerous.
Explosive ghoulish days.
Roller-coaster shrieked nights.
Way way north of Walpurgisnacht
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.
Safely coffee stable.
Phone. Phone. Mockingly mute.
But. Hark. Hard. Hark.
A call.
That’s what’s done is done.
And 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. Busy.
It’s all in vain.
“Do you cook on it?”
“We cook on them in my village,” Frank says.
Then with mobile ring Nigerian ‘Frank’ is off Eddie Rockets.
While TV talks of default.
We’re all in a rush.
It’s all in the rush.
“We cook on them in my village.”
Trick or treat?
Who the fuck knows?
KevBar – 30/10/2013
Illustration by Bruce Ryder
  • portglenone

    Goes off like a bomb in your head.