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tearing the rag off the bush again
Dragosh Ziditoru from the Fringy London Night PDF E-mail
new communiques from the fringe of London's night


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. 


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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