Whisky-full plastic buckets are the new goblets of communion
given rise to haphazard drunken swerve of scooter acolytes,
Lobster boiled shirtless to confession over mountainous curves
calling saints as saviours of the sins of naive innocents.
Mascara glances of rude promise with rubescent new madonnas
winding fertile paths of immaculate bucket soaked pleasures
conceived in naked birth, brazen in Haad Rin’s sodden Holy Sois
lining up tempestuous rhythms of incantation for forbidden fun.
Full Moon Tribes are the global pilgrims, moving to
dance, to worship a different beat in warm waters of love and
shared sands far from office, home, pulpit and commandment.
Communally carefree, fluorescent, hedonistic hymns of bacchanalia
Closed minds and tight hearts are banished with
yesterday’s creeds and forms by Koh Phangan’s
beautiful and blessed rhythmic children seeking
sanctuary far from righteous judgements of order.
Angels herald “Welcome to the New Enlightenment !”