a fiesta of charms

...the silent festering of a moody atmosphere between a man and
a woman sat down in a cafe
...the taste of a hard papaya left for a few days in a cold fridge
...the muddy remembrance of a conversation had at a bus stop
with a woman you recognise again
...the smell of just fallen snow
...the taste of tomato sauce licked off a bare nipple
...the rousing feeling of exposed anger within a crowd
...the oily stains of paint on old pieces of clothing
...the grandiose tales of a con man met on a train from Halifax to
Manchester
...the dry humour of a suicidal old man in a pub pouring much
of the contents of a pint of Guinness on himself
...the ecstasy of understanding another human being, after a long
languid conversation
...the humorous immodesty of a model complaining of vanity
...the quiet eroticism of death
...the deluge of excitement when catching a glimpse of something
completely new
...the ordeal of deciphering a Poet’s words
...the sound of rainwater against a windowsill
...the overheard conversation of a woman in the outer regions of
Stockholm whispering of escaping, acquiring large amounts of
fruit, Foucault
...the Childish panic of just realised self expression
...the tastelessness of drops of left over red wine slithering
lethargically down your throat
...the deathlike stares of old depressed men at bus stops
...the world doesn’t need more reality gently muttered by an old
lady outside a hairdresser’s in Tooting
...the pedantic manner of a bird trying to scavenge through a
recycled green bag, soon strewn chaotically across the streets
...the aggressive nature of a woman many deem a cougar
...the collection of thoughts that feel almost real and tangible
until the painting leaves your sight
...the beauty of the violence of the painting
...death stares at ripe Plums
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