Tuesday, 8 March 2011

Stumbling and Falling and Tripping over Our Heels

Stumbling and falling and tripping over our heels. Dust decorates us, saturates us, having its way with us, and impolitely, while also serving despite itself, to seep up all our multiform leaks. Stumbling and falling and propelled along by winds and the desire to be somewhere else, somewhere different, unhostile, and worthy of our sly remarks and wry grins. Wiping off wind born dust made mud with bare hands we devour it, alcohol content enough to prime us along and get the job done. Licking also our soiled and crusted lips, the taste of death and beauty intermingling with a twist of sour, a douse of trepidation. This, it is crunchy and provides a satisfying sensation upon the teeth.

Propelled ever onward, ever deeper, stumbling and mumbling, our vice the fuel and our lust the equal to any and all a contender, this side of the gutter, this side of the moon. Holes in trousers, pockets turned out, toes protrude from socks and shoes alike. Ribs running sore and a heart full of lust and hacking cough. Mirth and holes also to decorate and dress our pride, arrowed there and stinging still from the laughter of scrawny whores and fatter pimps. And enter with eyes large and smile wry the black of shadow and shade. A brushing off of dust, silt, mud and all forlorn as city walls embrace and cool. Now neatened smooth and dark and watered well, we slide like a snake and find our heart’s delight, a purse easily removed from some well off fool, half-heavy with coin. Grinning like a fool, a skip now added to our once driven step.

Arrived at the lowest ebb and flow, our street of choice and chosen destination. Mirth rising, bouncing off walls, sidestepping thieves and overstepping drunks, we have arrived. This side of the gutter, which is opened wide and taking the airs or airing out all of last night’s corruption an’ sin. Now pouring libation and accepting coin, our hole in the wall dodgy joint and bar of choice, where the booze is not so terribly watered down, the women come with warning labels and the men saturated with more than simply evil looks, where the rye whiskey hints of highest joy, but also tears of sorrow enough to flood the deepest of canals.

Booze and song and dance and fight. Carnal sins enough to confine us all to hell and heaven both. Merry and dervish and hints of knives and shouts and then fists and then cuts and glasses smashed and then laughter and walking-staggering, propelled ever homeward, bleeding and stumbling and mumbling, bouncing off of walls, seeking solace, somewhere dry at least, our hand in the hand of the female persuasion of the species, warm and fair and tightly clenched also about a lovely girlish waist.

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