Whirly Gig Days

Whirly-gig's venue changed
intrinsically bound to its die-hard crowd
faithful druggies,
the event crawled round London
drunken and degenerate
Victorian circus.
I was a true disciple.
My Master was vinyl .
A communion of

Ecstacy

layer sound upon sound,
dance utter frenzy,
sound system shake
synchronous
with the lighting
pulsated to a rhythm,
interlocked in wild
and passionate
electronic orgasm.

paradox.

Barely moving,
she was like a halcyon,
clad in silk and metal, .
The music peaked.
Vision faded away,

nothingness.

Whatever, whoever I once had been
had travelled
far into trance.

I became a phantom .

sharp sting of realisation
Joy in music, a
beautiful empathy when
holding my friends in tight embrace.

cold winter dawn ,
after the last tune has spun
Stroboscopic phantasmagoria closes,
the sharp pang - emptiness cuts in.

velvet London morning,
I fell into a deep dream.

Weeping willows,
gushing brooks and
rushes rushing past
and wind.
Dew drenched meadows,
pathetic symptoms of nature
Saturated my childhood,

and when I saw the beauty of a
sprawling conurbation
coughing diesel grime
into the billboard streets,
God I fell in love.

What physical process has any meaning-?
Not even tears
not even anguish pangs
not even death,

Oily swirls in a glass and
dust in a dirty London street

Cause and causality blurred,
assuming no form or being.
I wrenched myself into a thin winter sun,
slip in the suburban banality.
condemnation to a life of mediocrity?
Pain?

Walking wounded into another hour of fear
although even an antibody to terror is
generated from the marrow of my soul
fear sleep.

So clutch, my soul, my will, my strength,
to the life you ought to have,
to the person you should be,
to the wisdom you admire and seek.
Until like in a darkened room of technocratic strangers
you see as if for the first time another human being
and turn the palms of your hands upwards so they speak to you
and the real you
laughs and sees and loves and weeps
soaks up their words sabre through my diaphragm
I turned a full turn,
twisting my hidden bruises away
empty shell.

I had to write about it all
to make me real, to know that
I really existed and the form that my
existence adopted are these sheets of paper.