Hungry Ghosts

I follow the white monkey (Biała Małpa) down the hole and into the beer garden. Someone is swinging in a hammock. The sand resembles a beach. Minus the ocean or sea. I slip off my shoes. Welcome to Biała Małpa, they say. Before long we are eyeing the beer board. New World IPA, they say. Hoppy as sea foam the hoppy foams before me. I doth partake. Behold we do the handshakes. Very good. Then my secret name. Very good. Someone smiles. Miles & miles of good smile. As god now. Stop, I say. I do not understand, I say. I do not want to become god. Too late, says nobody. I will not knock on doors, I say. You’ve already knocked, says nobody. It is your own door, they say. We foam another hoppy. What is your state, they ask. My state, I say. Yes, they say, your state. I was too much liquid or maybe gas. I needed more solids. I moved to Spain for the solids. Very good, they say. It is a good first step, the solids, that is really something, but then you get used to it, & you want something else. We are all hungry ghosts. That’s where we are now. The hungry ghosts.

Born in Portadown, Northern Ireland, Marcus Slease is the author of Never Mind the Beasts (Dostoyevsky Wannabe), The Green Monk (Boiler House Press), and Play Yr Kardz Right (Dostoyevsky Wannabe), among others. Find out more at: Never Mind the Beasts and follow him on Twitter @postpran