DUB-STUMBLE TURNTABLES OF AFTERSHOW DJ’S:

What’s that jam stuff you got on your bread with cheese-eggs,
sausage-cheese, cheese-cornflakes? Seven black teas later I
eventually get the ‘hit’, feeling that first astringent bight of
the weekend. In the breakfast ballroom, where last night’s wedding
party still raged at 4:00am, I sit alone with my friend the giant
flower as far from speed-talking, leaning into the torrent from
each other’s mouths across the linen. They got control of the
flat-screen on the wall today, the morning infecting with poptastic
saccharin. The DJ’s & their girlfriends float in dazed, whispering
& clean, grazing the buffet of weird things. An old man presses his
face up to the window, cups his hands around his eyes & stares.
The waiter with the blue satin cummerbund opens the door to chase
him away, but he’s already gone. I Feel a fresh air kiss for the
first time last time before we tumble back into the sky.
Imagining the polyrhythmic magic of George Formby’s wrist.

(K)