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