Dragosh Ziditoru from the Fringy London Night |
by Dragosh Ziditoru |
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new communiques from the fringe of London's night
FOUL Grabbing my shoulders with its light hand of darkness the night slided me in double fog envelope, stamped both shoulders with spittle oak leaves,posted me to you. The late chipie, full of oil odor, 3 a.m. orders, shouts in Urdu, the night bus station where we decided unanimously world's too cold, al linked destiny-like with your youtube favs and further; looked like as many completed night's quests. We clicked in exactly 100 words and a song. Our 101 ( whose exactly?) shoved me on the floor, naked, like bouncers the odd drunk. The rest, iambic, decent, bowed silently to your replies, then followed outside, howl moonwards, call it a night. A BOTTLE I let it go. It makes no sound. You picked it up, gave it a long twist, the truely international bottle of juices, finishing its way around the earth to bring us a drop, a very tiny drop from each island and country where a woman lives. It makes no sound. Just stands on our shaky kithchen table, its contets slightly milky and fuzzy, badly filtring the light rays.It must have came out in moans and shrieks and sighs, gathered by a frantic bee with unlimited resources and five years to live, but just gazes at us silent and death-like. We feel almost cheated. Dead water. This vial which zig-zaged the world atlas and sucked drops of life from between open quivering legs and tired fingers wherever it stopped, this bottle saw and traveled more than any mortal will ever. Our nameless winemaker ensured a just proportion regarding age, race, body fat, hair color, yet I imagine only the post-coital, eyes-shut smile of a virgin and rain. You give it twist before each drop, cluck, ' two Ispahan dancers, ten Brazilians, loads of hazel eyes..' You rave, the thing must have hit you hard, spit out rich stories from all around the globe. 'Nothing here, mate' I stare through the bottom ,just that ginger. And her mum.' |
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