Damian Basher, Gallery Assistant
The Holiday Camp Witchfinder’s Report
Lilliputian vampyres loom from their coffins like Moons rising
over slag heaps. Reared in daylight in vacant trailers
they’re weaned on holidaymaker coo, kiss, prod and hug.
Undead, they will unlearn their caravan dependency but cannot
unyearn for the growling confluences of our seasonal blood.
Posing as lost toddlers, they savour each altruistic drop
or follow stumbling drunks to sip from their wounds.
Never seeing the upside-down Moon’s scowling baby-face,
we blame mosquitoes or fleas for last night’s bites.