They do not need to suck blood,to capture,simply their art is the swamping, in metropolitic apocalypse messages seemingly unending.Bending the mind not into screams,simply a sagging of the shoulders trying to close the door to their booming doom and gloom.
Yesterday i sat in the swimming baths once more for the duration,of day light hours..the outside world shut out in chlorine haze,hard plastic seats,cold chocolate and young flesh pounding the waves washed in white tiles.As always during this time, as the oxygen begins to hang from the bleached ceiling,in manifestations reminiscent in wild rhubarb patches where dandelions fear to grow under shadows of real vampires, the sort that bite buttocks, the written word keeps me from the strange idea of leaping through the air into the very water youth thrashes.
I took with me for company this quarters,edition of Granta which has proudly arrived at 101...in the spring of 2008.Simply titled One hundred and one,each script...as always captivated,each script so doom laden the title of the spring edition should have read " Melancholy madness ".with a warning on the front cover read this then reach for the chardonnay bottle.
The second words i punched through was the " Sunday Independent " a newspaper of so many inserts i could have made a dress out of such scribbles and worn to the fireman's ball,if i had such courage.
Perhaps i could have gone as a paper vampire,for each page felt like lead balloons,i wondered how the other 200,000 plus readers across the land must have been feeling..would they have flung the paper reached for a whisky stood in front of the window before them, thinking what the Fuck.Would they have thought vampires too...