"These aren't people, these are animals!" scandalised policeman crashing last wrap party,
"What are you wrapping?" "Our souls officer. Wanna join?"

I saw them celebrated, evicted, unpaid,
Transported-Teleported-Telepathied all over the world,
Sipping Cosmic Tea in the trenches of their shivering collective mind
Drawing lines across stolen tables and looted hearts, riders spread out to the horizon, I saw them in a script spilling off a page, pixelated.

Their portable offices easy to erect - in Bolivian mines, Bulgarian Caves, Spanish fences, the horrid streets of ‘Fnsletown, LoL_LoL_London - always a phone call away , a pack of hungry possessed wolves.
"The Devil is after me and the only way to extract him from my being is film”

I was there when they lost an actor in their warehouse, their Hotel Hypnagogia, his soul still haunts the place - so beware in Newington Butts,and in cinemas, and in dreams you think may be your own.