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[Dec. 19th, 2013|09:49 pm] |
Wotcha! Biju Briselē, kas bija okay. Tad bija pie zobarstes, kas bija krūšaini labi. Vakar runāju ar kaimiņu, kura strāda pie musu IKKI (esmu darbā - nav laika pārbaudīt gramatiku). Izrādās, ka viņas alga ir 1 LV/stundā. Mēs, kopā braucām ar microautobusu - biļete maksāja viņai 36 min - piens kādus 40 minutes, siera gabals vairāk nekā stunda. Stāstīju sievas mātei par to, un viņa domāja, ka tā alga ir tiri labi - nū ja vispār ņemsim verā etcetera etcetera.
Tā tad: In the city – it yawns before your feet, showing its teeth - jutting at angles on the gum and cheek, the names of streets – Monnet and ScHuman – champagne celebration on the meditteranean stretching and hugging itself Northward to the hub – the heart, the beating heart – our all-regulated heart – the heart of darkness out into Africa lifted the skyscraper out into the sky above the quarter – Doctor Livingstone rotted at the root, the pub door opening into hospitality blocked with foot of passed out head on African travelling bag the same fabric as the East European huddled in corpusses – pulsing at 17:00 among the litter by a club that hasn’t stopped – peep shows and pimps under the railway nestle near the glass blocks of functioning niches for common purpose. A wide clear bar with clientele as envisaged in the planning stage applaud a flamenco dancer, who strides and stamps and for a little money drops the apple at their feet as outside the professional girls make a move on those gents who creep – I get within orbit and take a peek at the high and I would-fuck-you-for-a-fee-cheek and feel the distance as a flash of atoms in the ether from Norfolk to the Sahara. There isn’t a river but it floods here, kiss kiss baby come come here, there is a contract for a niche which will help you pay the bond grip of the Red Shields whose ambassador was drinking champagne with the Prime Ministers as the sun rose over the meditteranean, that is if we get through the interminable meetings: we are waiting, you see from a sign from above. I walk back from the centre: clouds like holy smoke from imperial houses, madness and city piss and a question excuse moi, parlez vous francais? C’est vrai, n’est pas, que nous avon la meme – Oh excuse me. I am a human. I have the same corpuss as you, and I need to eat she says her tits flopping against a thin dirty white Tshirt. |
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