" hey, grondelski " __ 001 __ the ritual begins

/ The Ritual Begins /

We met in the dusk of afternoon on the small roads out of town where the broadland oozes about bald spectral trees, forests of skeletons horrible, white, in the headlights passing, just brief glimmers of those ghosts of summer swamped by the swelling tides of foul puddles farted from the dank loam, that dwarfed the felled trunks, soft with disease and drowning in life for which death proved the perfect camouflage; we met in the dusk where their slender branches take slender rest, form proscenium avenues of the B roads to Hainford, banks of brown leaves like great lisping tongues upon us – Scooter, the Big Kid, Mick the Cunt, Long John Dimmock, Beaky, me; we six met in the dusk on the small roads, such was the ritual, and we shared in the cool without warmth or comfort  our tales of horror and despair and too of memories of the loves of the future.