Time Takes a Cigarette 9

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New Years came and went in a parade of increasingly ridiculous fashions. Hems rose and fell. Bosoms inflated, deflated. Hair grew long on men, short on women, spikier, dyed, shaven, fringed, gelled. Badges, bangles, piercings, tattoos swarmed across the skin of generations, a camera obscura of the three hundred and sixty three days I had no knowledge of. I grew jaded, cynical. Took to mocking the mindless ritual of it all, the false camaraderie. The music grew louder, more incomprehensible. The odd song stood out, stopped time, but most were just noise. The flashing lights, the booming sound systems, the fug of booze, sweat, aftershave and perfume … it was nausea-inducing. That is when I caught sight of the Beloathed. S/he was dancing coquettishly amid the maddening crowd – playing them like a conductor, riding the tide of their energy. Always the IT girl or boy. The spirit of the moment. The needle in the groove of time. Suddenly I was possessed with an urge to kill this zeitgeistian. With blue murder in my eyes and a killer shuffle I stepped upon the dance-floor. With difficulty I pushed my way through the sticky mob – buffeted by their wild dancing. I was mocked, lipsticked, spilt on and shoved. Finally, I had the cuckoo in my sights. ‘Fancy meeting you here?’ the She-male laughed beneath its transparent veil, slim form glittering with stars. If not for its smug grin the face might have been beautiful, a Peter Pan on platforms.‘I’m going to kill you!’ I roared. ‘You’ll have to catch me first!’The elusive puer eternus sprang into the air with alarming agility, leap-frogging over the crowd and out of sight.

Tally-fucking-ho.

Kevan Manwaring©2017

Part 8

Part 7

Part 6

Part 5

Part 4

Part 3

Part 2

Part 1

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