There is pandemonium on the streets.
Bodies clog the rat-runs as child-catchers and Vikings ravage the town. Youths drink liquor and crush bottles beneath designer footwear. Old ladies watch calmly, confusedly from their chairs, blankets warming frosted knees, clutching teddy bears as a substitute for forgotten love. Pre-pubescent girls stomp out their anxieties, craving anonymous attention, and their grandmothers applaud them. Peter Pan wonders at those who have grown up, those faces of past, present and future weaving around about each other. Bubbles and spirits meander from the haze.
Taverns overspill into the grit outside, men dressed as ladies spread their legs and hitch up their skirts to unwitting passers-by. Beer and balloons fly, the bitter sweat of alcohol as intoxicating as it is sobering. Hats and wigs play musical chairs upon the skulls of the gathering. As the bubbles go down, the spirits rise.
Later, the ribald screech of a cartoon character having sex in a cup echoes through a crooked house, guess who? Dogs leave their mark and are fed treats from guests, leaving glitter on their muzzles. Fish zip around the room, but as their destiny remains unfulfilled, they tidy themselves into a pile on the mantle. Bubbles mix with milk and spirits start to bubble.
A dark road home, an unexpected light falls upon nylon hair. Insipid tea placates the padding, restless feet from above, whilst there is much smoke and shivering under cape and clematis. The sun starts to yawn, the birds twit-twit-twitter.
As day dawns, the bubbles burst and the spirits hide until another night.
