Goths' Paradise, Sir Gar.

Goths’ Paradise, Sir Gar.

Down into the dark depths of hell itself, sinking quickly and swiftly, beat by breathless beat into the black hole of pounding ceaseless thrumming and drumming. Slipknot screeching and screaming obscenities  at the whole bastard world. Wicked.

Androgynous skinny black t-shirts suck to each other in the cavernous depths of the bar.

Satanic scowls, wolfen howls and death- white faces hasten to frighten, heighten the fearsome notes issuing forth from the bottomless pit of wicked iniquity. Awesome.

Glazed, staring cider-filled  eyes , worldly wise and yet devoid of real knowledge. Truthful lies ; living on  highs, colourful  psychedelic pretence, and longing for  Mam’s lamb dinner. With mint sauce, of course, and pudding, to soak up the vibes, diatribes; to soothe him to sleep, the sweet and  succulent dreams of the teenage piss artist.

Coz that is what he is, see.

Sunday morning;  yawning and sweating, stretching disgustingly,  emitting sulphurous smells, remembering Saturday night spells in the fairground of Gothic fantasy.

Where he was a god, a pagan, a hell-raising demon. But now a boy, a toy, plaything of a pathetic paediatric nightmare. Teenage torture.

Hormonally infused from the night before the mundane morning that is.

Stinky sheets to be hidden, along with magazines forbidden by Dad.

Bad boy that he is.

Cornflakes with semi-skimmed, please.