Mesonoxian Mollynogging Mayhem by Paul Tristram

There is a rickety old house of underskirt business
upon the more seedier side of Union Street.
After the normal outer door has been penetrated
there is a second iron prison cell door 4ft further in
where you are stopped and questioned properly.
Sometimes a simple ‘I’m not the Filth, promise’ works
but this guy never even stops walking.
They grind that door open smiling and chuckling,
some of those bad boys with machetes and handguns
even bow as he struts on through as cool as a cucumber
and familiar with every sound and gesture.
They call him ‘The Midnight Gentleman’
he always arrives at exactly 6pm of an evening
upon the 1st of each month, come rain or shine.
Dressed absolutely immaculately, of course,
in his burgundy silk ‘Full Monty’ suit, paisley cravat,
solid white gold skull and crossbones cufflinks,
highly polished steel tapped black brogues,
Winston Churchill overcoat and always a brand new
half gallon Victorian top hat with a peacock feather
in the cuff of one side and ‘The Magician’ card
from the tarot sticking cheekily out of the other.
The aroma busily swirling up the air around him is
one of Old Spice, Real Ale, Port and undiluted Anarchy.
He always takes the top floor suite, at the back,
the one nicknamed ‘The Drunken Pirate’s Galleon’
Gives £1000 in notes to One-Eyed Susan at the foot
of the second lot of stairs where he inquires without
waiting for a reply “Are there any new ones?
If so insert them into my usual eight and make up
the remaining numbers from whoever lasted the longest
the very last time that they and I were formally acquainted!”
Ten minutes later and a street dealer is running
up the stairs with his little bag of tricks in tow
and soon leaving with a devilish smile just as rapidly.
At exactly 7pm the music starts (Always just Punk Rock
on day one) and the girls are led up fresh faced and smiling.
By 9pm the mayhem is in full swing but by midnight
everything peaks and switches insane and barbaric,
there’s an out of tune chorus of human abattoir squeals,
grunts, screams and moaning eclipsing certain segments
of the music like sleazy aural punches to the senses
of all that’s decent, pure and morally right with the world.
By 6am there’s a lull in the proceedings as the greasy spoon
across the way delivers bacon and egg rolls and coffee.
At 7am the horsewhip sounds, the music switches
to Oi! and Hardcore and the smashing, breaking, cracking,
splintering and ripping noises begin in worrying earnest.
At Noon everything goes suddenly and pulsatingly silent
for exactly an hour, during which time One-Eyed Susan
takes up the 13 first aid kits and leaves them,
with a shudder, outside of the ominous, almost throbbing door.
After which there is chanting and weird incantations
up until 4pm and at 5pm the girls are set free to stumble,
exhausted, back down the stairs to normality and safety.
At 6pm the door is left ajar and the room completely vacated,
although no one ever sees him leave, he makes his way
slyly down the fire escape to a waiting, rented limousine.

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet. Buy his book ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036  And also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.
Buy his book ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036

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