Part I

I

Pitching ideas across magazines

In the mist of Smiths,

The sound gondolaed through

The doors leading to the entrance

And the caverns of brickwork

Of the coffee shop next door,

Echoed with a pulsating shake

Running like the wind

Coagulating around the taxi rank

Just a few yards outside,

And inexorably the screams

That shattered more

Than one throne

Translated into a missing ingredient

As much as a ghostly warning

Only minutes before

That things were about to get nasty.

Again.