Wee Small Hours

Hobgoblin in the gutter under canopy of midnight, magic brew of muti without rein. Shadow figure torchon, darting half-light dare. Spine chilling droplets wobble slowly down drains, rusty copper mouthwash at the edge of jagged chutes. Eerie urban soundscapes frame, a sneeze or smothered cough. Drone of vagrant motors probe, the flyby ink-black abyss. Youthful laughter echoes over back streets, as nearby lamp posts cast their bloodshot rays. Night owls chinwag over Onion Bhaji, raucous babble buried in a saffron whiff. Strains of ragtime jazz and sleek arpeggios, shrine or vinyl monument ahoy. Hobo’s lonely whistle on an empty pier. Urban jungle cast-off ghostly lurch,/ Burakumin patsy in high dudgeon. Spooky timelines relish every moment of suspense, swallowing the hush with ghoulish glee. Quasimodo bell ring vaults a broomstick, setter of alarm and wanton panic. City wall clock twiddles on its hourly thumb, scene plotter’s endless play denouement, wee small hour dialogue without a script, waiting for the dawn to take it’s baton.