Visible Light



In a packed Roma disco on the plains

of Bucharest, a gypsy boy passed

me his gun. I turned it over

and passed it on, went outside

for a piss, standing in the wilderness,

cock in hand, bag over my shoulder,

memory drawing its stick in the dust,

capturing every iota of all this, down to

the crust around the calcified

mouth of the waste pipe by the door

at the back where three women stand

under a bare bulb foggy with insects,

its light the only visible light

for miles and miles around.




Tim Cumming
Illustration Rupert Loydell

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