A man in his forties, a quiff of restrained flamboyance
that never moved streamlined his chiselled head.
A tight black T, toned limbs, slim jeans, he paid
great attention to his appearance. When the pills kicked
in the light in his eyes turned platinum as he rose
from his seat to grind the air like a rodeo rider.
Circling a dream lasso above him in a fist, he scanned
the auditorium with a stare that was simultaneously
jubilant & callous for an accomplice. The woman next to
him, smiling thinly, looking round nervous, trying to
pull him back to his seat, but the pills were talking
visions & tongues, breaking him free like a biscuit,
searching for orbit, dance himself back to ‘the day’.
Then he was gone, snapped off & running down the stairs,
like a toddler, squatting like a cowboy baboon, punching
the air, calling his ghost tribe to arms.