As village boys daring do The shadow boys, dank on the street-end night, garner down the unlit back-alleys of evening, cold and ashes, the bonfire of their village days. Kazoo-minded of the comb-toothed doors, closed upon of the buzz of settled, mumbling, middling, maudlin lives, they graze the footsteps of the ancients. For sure, they were stepping beyond the edge of darkness in a bravado of daring do, a reincarnation of “we are The Boys”, at the apogee of the bell curve of life. Gripped by the scaffold of a raucous epiphany. Toes on the top board, devil-may-care above a torrent of testosterone, coursing through the canaliculi of their tiny minds; and momentarily they are mightier than the night. Although, you’ll note, never too far from supper, or the wink of the scullery light.
It’s not fairground The ratchet millipede ghost train, one way only. No way back, through the clattering doors. Cue siren, wooo oo wooo How can one fear the pouncing ghouls? When they are from your cobweb album, with the shadow of your past in every shot. wooo oo wooo Clattering back into the sunshine white knuckled fist and a nonchalant smile. See girls - piece of cake. Fair grounds it is not.
A dead young seal upon the beach. A grey cadaver of sadness. A discarded bag of moonbeams. A turgid, sand-teared, madness. I can still see it lying there. I can still see its empty eyes. La mort en mer. La mort beneath sea skies.