I*> Halloween Block Party :: Converse and Town Hall [JHB]

Halloween, you sick gaunt slutty fuck.  In your cutesy petticoats and candyfloss hair. You suck us out of our awful desolate hum drums and then spit us right back into Monday, regret and bile dripping from our orifices.

Newtown’s stink is not as warm and suffocating as usual, the first heavy rain of the season having suppressed it for a night. But a new stench drowns out the hipsters who are crawling over each other’s skinny corpses, trying to creep in to see Sibot, or Twelv , or Crossman and Phyzicist, or Bittereinder or Desond & the Tutus: whichever act the Converse and Town Hall dudes have whipped up on one of four brilliant stages.

The car guards are making a killing ten blocks down the street, into the part of the city your mom warned you about. Just past the eighth, the cops are raking in Christmas bonuses, hiding behind bridge pillars in delight.

The barrier separating Niskerone from the soaked masses, lathered in sex from the bottom of erotic toes to tips of silver-dusted electric hair, becomes part of the whirlwind of manic jiving as hands grope and toss it about.

Girls on disco biscuits and coked up boys, Mowgly and a viking, Jesus, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, zebras and  giraffes, OK computer heads, and weeping princesses crowd up our once innocent Town Hall.

In the chaos of elbows and chokers, a girl has given up hope and surrenders to the slipstream of blood-spattered nurses and zombies. She looks like the victim in a 80s techno video, drenched black eyes and frizzy hair spoiled from the stampede.

Plucky naked butts glow in the orange light and fake blood mimics the rotting us dirty youths feel underneath our clothes. Bodily fluids escape from the pores of girls in Mr. Price vellies and painted faces, bats with baby faces, and  rats with moustaches.

Cold bodies shake off the shackles as bodies twist and transmogrify. It’s Halloween, and tonight, us kids don’t give a fuck.