Saturday 8th November



Through the midnight hole beneath the sea, the rails,
the steely twins that carry us away from the island
into the opens arms of Techno’s children. The noises
from the bunks below, the grunts, the mumblings
& guttural blubblings, the smells that rise, the
trainer honk, the bodies hid behind drawn curtains for
their personal unspoken odours. Dishwash & rice milk
for solitary moment snatched before the sleepers awake.
A magazine I’d never read on any other day. Parked up
round the back in shadow for a chill wind hidden from the
sun, beneath towering slabs of industrial metals shedding
skins from age, Two thin yellow cables drip down from
the sky to disappear into the black hole mouth of a
gaping factory – cathedral of groove. Scrub your body
in the hotel, lock the door for a silent moment, step out
into the sun & smile, a phone is ringing. Food & food &
food & food & photograph everything that sets a fire, save
it up, take it away till some later day when all that you’re
surrounded is familiar for miles & nothing catch your
hungry eye – tired but alive.


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